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THE UNIVERSITY 
OF ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


OAK ST LIRBRARV 


..Return this book on or before the 
Latest Date stamped below. A 
charge is made on all overdue 
books. 


University of Illinois Library 


L161—H41 


MASTER PIECES 
of 
MODERN VERSE 


COMPILED AND EDITED BY 
EDWIN DvuBOIS SHURTER 


Formerly Professor of Public Speaking in the 
University of Texas 


AND 


DWIGHT EVERETT WATKINS 


Associate Professor of Public Speaking tn the 
University of California 


NOBLE AND NOBLE, Publishers 
76 FirrH Avenue - - New York 


ie By NOBLE AND NOBLE 


r Sefer 


a 


: 5 ‘ LAs 
: } 4 iS “Tar : J = 
ay ; —_ . 
Ba } ey ih Li } 


ie 


PREFACE 


Propie who are interested in public speaking are 
constantly looking for new poems that can be used 
for this purpose. Here you will find a wealth of 
just such material. Only modern poetry has been 
included, because most teachers and professors agree 
with us that contemporary poetry is more suited for 
class use in schools and colleges than the old, time- 
worn classics. The modern poets are closer to the 
hearts of the listeners, both in style and choice of 
subject matter. 

“A poem is not truly a poem,” says Professor 
Corson, “until it is voiced by an accomplished reader 
who has assimilated it.”” The selections in this book, 
therefore, have been carefully chosen for their value 
_ in oral delivery, and because they express the ten- 
,~dencies of modern poetic thought with their love of 
nature, and their humanitarian impulses. 

Selections in dialect, or selections requiring con- 
siderable skill in impersonation, have purposely been 
avoided. On the other hand, the poems included 
vary greatly in content and structure, in order to 
stimulate the mental and spiritual life of the reader 
“by bringing him in contact with rich and varied 
». experiences, and to provide him with the best ex- 
* amples of ideas, thoughts, and feelings. They will 
™ show what new interpretations the modern poets are 


iii 


£36662 


iv Masterpieces of Modern Verse 


giving to life, what new beauty they have found, 
what new art they have realized. This book fairly 
teems with this new and modern spirit. 

Each poem is preceded by a head-note containing 
a short, biographical sketch of the author and brief 
suggestions as to the best means of reading the 
poem forcefully and effectively. Long annotations 
are considered unnecessary as they usually tend to 
confuse the person attempting an oral delivery of 
the selection. 

While it was not possible for the compilers to 
include every masterpiece of contemporary verse, it 
is hoped that the student will find in this book a 
wealth of material for public speaking, for class 
work, and for platform reading. It is also hoped 
that during the reading of these selections, the stu- 
dent will form a desire to further reading of modern > 
verse that is worthwhile. 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


NATURE 


Author Title Page 


Mackay, Constance D’Arcy ....A Ballad of the Road 3 
Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt ..The Path that Leads 


to Nowhere ....... 4 
Auslander, Joseph ............ I Come Singing ..... 6 
SH Vers LCONOTA sy. fc dv cee shoe ss PRED ONO yee eo 7 
Wat Liye (ELenry do. es socio os 6 a's An Angler’s Wish ... 8 
PUM ek a leiey OUN SY ewe ds wee 6 The Chant of the 
GOlOTatOn ys sok sane II 
Masefield, John ....... Bee ana 5 DEE OUT Coie s van css 1%} 
Pavey) RICHOTC vine eae tos kena The Sea-Gypsy i... 14 
Chittenden, William Lawrence..Neptune’s Steeds .... 15 
WEA IV KG SLEULY. Carma ewer gy 0s Salute to the Trees .. 17 
Faulks, Theodosia Garrison ....The Green Inn ...... 18 
Untermeyer, Louis ......... Ss Ge vain cere sie ida 20 
PLOStHNOUCIL Casas bcs cece ccn'e PCR Shout ewe Nowe 21 
Visas RDAWD, COA WIR ose sce w voce ees The Joy of the Hills . 23 
BePHIC Ys OCTLOlIC a). si5 5 n8 sive Sane CW rg Me AUR She AB AWS 8 25 
MterMevyer, LOUIS acess eecc y's e Highmount ........-. 27 
Le Gallienne, Richard ....... -May is Building Her 
PIOUS OM are ea trae 29 
Conkling, Grace Hazard ....... Apter SUNSCE kos. © 30 
Garland, Hamlin ..............4 DakotaWheat Field 31 
Untermeyer, Louis ........ coe vLOMASCOPES  scccceaee 33 
Le Gallienne, Richard .......... Catalog of Lovely 
THINGS in sok reeks 35 
Carman, Bliss ....... RAs The Winter Scene ... 37 
<A weit: Madison ° 0) licks. os ee Desoried wei vee 39 
Fletcher, John Gould .......... Down the Mississippi 40 
NaN atigy USA oie a Pues ay eos A Vagabond Song ... 45 
Millay, Edna St, Vincent ...... God’s World ..s..0» . 46 


vi Contents 


THE CITY AND MODERN LIFE 


Author Title Page 

Hoyt Helens sn Oe Gr a Ellis (Pape ssw eee ee 47 

Drmkwater/@obney shoes ts beet In Lady Street. ovens 48 

Tietrens: Hearice tn vice 4) vee The Steam Shovel ... 51 
Untermeyer, Lottis $2.06 02 nase Caliban in the Coal 

MM ines 4 SOG Seance 54 

Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson ........ The: Stone oes ae 55 

Hirkins +: Chester yp Pera wn. Se On a Subway Express 59 


Branch, Anna Hempstead ...... Songs for My Mother 60 
iiliner, Joyce Gen was oan Mee SEC OUTS Miviran ieee ortants 63 
Lawrence, David Herbert ...... Pigu evden asa ee 65 
Untermeyer, Jean Starr ...... AULUINN ‘ociwn coe sum 66 
Hardy, : THOMA Ge es ae cee The Two Houses .... 68 
Bunner, Henry Cuyler ........ The Chaperon ....... 71 
PATRIOTIC 
Bates, Katharine Lee .......... America the Beautiful 73 
Laeberman; (ae > 323) sence noe The Caravels of Co= 
EuInNDUS Hoss wes be 74 
Claitk: Badger re soy t aes s Pioneers” 356 Gae ee 76 
Markham sicdwin 5,40 as, Lincoln, the Man of 
the Peoplens a wees 78 
PHuhner Lean cece cls cee eke Theodore Roosevelt .. 80 
Malloch; ‘Dotiglas 7..-ckn...5>s The Westiivecee tte 81 
Chaprian’ “Asthur 7icvitiaas eres Out Where the West 
Begins (ins sen cae 82 


THE HORROR OF WAR 


Scollard Clinton Ge. tus sc eae The Vale of Shadows 83 
Young, Ruth Comfort Mitchell..He Went for a Sol- 
d6eF Gc Ries ee 86 
Untermeyer, Louis ...........: The Laughers ...... 88 
Seeger, Alan ...............-.:1 Have a Rendezvous 
with Death ........ 92 
Service, Robert William ...... Fleurette <. chase gsine's 93 
Hagedorn, Hermann .......... Dhé Pyros : coven cena 


97 
Wilson, Margaret Adelaide ....The Road to Babylon 100 


Contents Vil 


REFLECTIVE AND INSPIRATIONAL 
Author Title Page 


O’Sheel, Shaemas <..2... 6.200 He Whom a Dream 
Hath Possessed .... 10% 


Markham, Edwine..............1n€ Man with The 


DOte aii ee 103 
Masters, Edgar Lee ........... SUCKER eee vse viekiance d 105 
Price: Cale) Young). c. . sss 6 lee DROM YSHE TI idee oaks ‘108 
Wheelock, John Hall .......... BOrtice eee tien s oer I10 
Ra ein MaAGiISOtiiis voy sacs ss ces The House of Life .. 113 
Guiney, Louise Imogen......... THe ORAROS ee eke 114 
Miprean, ATCC a soe cakes os cae-s TMG on Us Gs ieee os 116 
Maorgar Ageless ke scce ov e'e' We OP Rites ad baa wan ce tre 118 
Rear IMA eee yt a kn cohibeca sk The Weather-Vane .. 120 
Cleghorn, Sarah Northcliffe ....Portrait of a ‘Lady .. 122 
Guiney, Louise Imogen ........ The Wild Kide ov... 124 
RICVEY OU RICNAIC Ns fee sins mciste ee At the Crossroads ... 126 
SAIIET OVE Our G visions ce aa ccs es M OP a en ok oo ele 127 
Benét, William BOSC hak oe als The Falconer of God 129 
Bynner, Witter .....s.ceseseeee Grieve Not for Beauty 131 
Crapsey, sdelaide' sae veces To the Dead in the 


Graveyard Under- 
neath My Window 134 


Monroe, Harriet i yh ig hers haan Mother Earth ....... 136 
Towne, Charles Hanson ...... Beyond the Stars .... 139 
Coates, Florence Earle ........ The Unconquered Air 143 
OLR TEVA RGSEM Ac, wins « ¥ibwem « I Shall not Pass This 
Way Again. scree 144 
ESPECIALLY MUSICAL 
Bynner, Witter .......... Pat oels Apollo Troubadour .. 147 
CCOOIOTItI Aas OMNIA sss eas « In Blossom Time .... 151 
McCarthy, Denis Aloysius ....Tipperary im _ the 
ODTING Mala cfeas cores ale 152 
Sutton, Edward Forrester ..... The DAM UR ven 154 
Noyes, Alfred ..... Shin's sare i A Song of Sherwood 160 
HEROIC 
Gilkey, John Augustus... ,,..... The Heroes of the 


Yukon @o02000000008800 163 


INDEX OF TITLES 


PAGE 
Peeper UCL kesh eta e wh ae ks Grace Hazard Conkling 30 
America the Beautiful ....... Kathertne Lee Bates .. 73 
Angler’s Wish, An .......... Henry Van Dyke ..... 8 
Apollo Troubadour ......... Witter Bynner ........ 147 
PE SING (CrOSST AUS. dec. bw Richard Hovey ....... 126 
TIRED ge By ea tian sted ce Jean Starr Untermeyer 66 
Ballad of the Road, A ....... Constance D’Arcy 
RIGERAWS ca nd bxkon aee 3 
Beyoud the: Slars*.31.0. sees: Charles Hanson Towne 139 
SRICHOS SC Sh ee teks cece? ROGGE Hrost Soo oe ok oe 21 
Caliban in the Coal Mines.... Louis Untermeyer .... 54 
Caravels of Columbus, The.. Elias Lieberman ...... 74 
Catalog of Lovely Things....Richard LeGallienne .. 35 
Chant of the Colorado, The..Cale Young Rice ..... II 
CTVR ARE ti oo ha bakes Henry Cuyler Bunner . 71 
Dakota Wheat Field, A ..... Hamlin Garland ...... 31 
Ooh We Pepeaapeepantinge libel don a oped Madison Cawetn ...... 39 
Down the Mississippi ....... John Gould Fletcher .. 40 
BEGOT AISI Colac cease rs Edward Forrester Sut- 
ROM Gere. Aeik mo cas Gam eis 154 
2 EAT Sia ea hea ia Cs John Hall Wheelock .. 110 
bac fy igs gr Bg So eae na Mi fiend eae 19a Fiéien  Favi ese tects 47 
Falconer of God, The ....... William Rose Benét .. 129 
PPULPTie ake ieee Makes ae ae a Robert William Service 93 
Se SAN OTIN We won bebe Edna St. Vincent Mil- 
[fa Ball © CPV E CAP ae ie oe 46 
SSEPOTE Nt ERY org oie dk wes Theodosia Garrison 
Paula i era elk oe 18 
Grieve Not for Beauty ...... Witter Bynner ..... PANS AH 
Heroes of the Yukon, The...John Augustus Gilkey. 163 
He went for a Soldier ....... Ruth Comfort Mitchell 
VON Gece kn ewe tke 
He Whom a Dream Hath 
{CC a Pe ee a Shaemas O’Sheel ..... 101 


eeoceeoeereevee eve eee eee 


Highmount 
ELAS tes b Gas tie stuart enh ete 
House of Lite, The i... 
I Come Singing 
I Have a Rendezvous with 
Death 
In Blossom Time 
In Lady Street 
I Shall Not Pass This Way 
ASAlTTS Gane cua s sieges Aerie 


Joy of the Hills, The 
Kings, The 


eocoereeereese eee 


ecoeereeoseeeeves 


eeeceeesceerere eee eeee 


Landscapes 

Laroherss FG isa tate ase ve ore 

Lincoln, The Man of the 
People 


Man with the Hoe, The 
Martin 
May Is Building Her House 
Mother Earth 
Mystic, The 


ceecereeoeeeo eee eee eee 


eocecoreeeeeoecee eee ee 


eevee 
eee reeoeoesce eset eoeseees 
ee 
eevee ecereereseve 
ececeoroeeoceeos eee 


Neptune’s Steeds 


On a Subway Express 
Out Where the West Begins 


Path That Leads to No- 
where, The 
Piano 


eeroeevee 


eeoeoeoeereeereeeeaeoee eee eee 


eceeceoeoeerer eee ee eeoee 


Rebels 


ROOtse ype tye ee eee 


eececeeeeee 


Index of Titles 


PAGE 
Louis Untermeyer .... 27 
Berton Braley ........ 25 
Madison Cawein ...... 113 
Joseph Auslander ..... 6 
Alan Seeger nscciees 92 
Ina Donna Coolbrith.. 151 
John Drinkwater ..... 48 
Eva Rose York ...... 144 
Edwin Markham ..... 23 


Louise Imogen Guiney 114 


Louis Untermeyer .... 33 
Louis Untermeyer .... 88 
Edwin Markham ..... 78 
Edwin Markham ..... 103 
Joyce Kilmer ......0.. 127 
Richard LeGallienne .. 29 
Harriet Monroe ...... 136 
Cale Young Rice ..... 108 
William Lawrence Chit- 

tenden 2 ee 15 
Chester Firkins ....... 59 
Arthur Chapman ..... 82 
Corinne Roosevelt Rob- 

WSON Ne eee 4 
Davis Herbert Law- 

FENCE. ooh ee eee 65 
Badger Glare vag 76 
Sarah Northcliffe 

Cleghorn 5. oh tak 122 
Hermann Hagedorn .. 97 
Louis Untermeyer .... 20 
Margaret Adelaide 

Walsons wang tee tee 100 
Joyce Kilmer ........> 63 
Leon Huhner ......... 80 


Index of Titles xi 


PAGE 

Salute to the Trees .......... Henry Van Dyke ..... 17 
CHEAT MEVEr. Hyudiss cx a bie dne on John Masefield ....... 13 
Bite CAPPS et LGN Aes ros wile a's Richard Hovey ....... 14 
PHRIGRICH AR ores ce eis Sea e ts Edgar Lee Masters .. 105 
Song of Sherwood, A ....... Alfred Noyes ........ 160 
Songs for My Mother ....... Anna Hempstead 

BTORTH PSE Bo renee: 60 
PRIMAL ALL LC Woes & vie Sic wens oes Leonora Speyer ....... & 
pieam Shovel... Phe io... k. ss. Eunice Tietiens ...... 
SSPOTIO TL Ga aete cllits vecke ve Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Re 
Tipperary in the Spring ..... Dents Aloysius Mc- 

Carthy Oe ee 152 
PRO PUR Ve Sakae Pence coe aiels ok Bae Angela Morgan ...... 116 
To the Dead in the Grave- 

yard Underneath my Win- 

Gif pid dees Te iC Meee igs Plaats Se Adelaide Crapsey ..... 134 
Howo Houses, The isi... : Thomas’ Hardy ....... 68 
Unconquered Air, The ...... Florence Earl Coates.. 143 
Magabond Song. -A. 6 Sys... Bliss Carman ......... 45 
Vale of Shadows, The ...... Clinton Scollard ...... 83 
Weather-Vane, The ......... Bliss Carman ......... 120 
NOES UL ELE heen eh oon at, Douglas Malloch ..... SI 
WAR RIGe2 et NET crise ois ce Loutse Imogen Guiney 124 
Winters Seene ENe+. Sones aa; Biss COPmaw owen. ae 37 


WIE MEN nae se vices vcr. penne WOrgan oats. TIS 


INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Auslander, Joseph 


eeoeveeveeene 


Bates, Katherine Lee 
Benét, William Rose 
Braley, Berton 
Branch, Anna Hempstead . 
Bunner, Henry Cuyler 
Bynner, Witter 


eosre eer eeeos 
eeeeereee 


oe eee eee ere eeee 


cece ereeeoeee see 


Carman, Bliss 


eorreecee eevee ee oe 


Cawein, Madison 
Chapman, Arthur 
William Law- 


Chittenden, 

rence 
Clark, Badger 
Cleghorn, Sarah Northcliffe.. 
Coates, Florence Earle 
Conkling, Grace Hazard 
Coolbrith, Ina Donna 
Crapsey, Adelaide 


eo ee eee eee ee eo eee eeresee 


eoee eee ees ere ee 


eooeoeeseeoeresne 


Drinkwater, John 


Faulks, Theodosia Garrison... 
Firkins, Chester 
Fletcher, John Gould 
Frost, Robert 


Garland, Hamlin 
Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson 
Gilkey, John Augustus 


oe ee eee eee eee 
creer eee 


ooo ree eee eee eee 


oocoereree eee re 
eevee r ee 
eee ee esean 


Guiney, Louise Imogen 


eee eeoee 


PAGE 
I Come Singing ...... 6 
America the Beautiful. 73 
The Falconer of God. 129 
PRE ALEUIS Noe vce ci 25 


. Songs for My Mother. 60 
The Chaperon ........ 7a 
Grieve Not For Beauty 131 
Apollo Troubadour ... 147 
A Vagabond Song .... 45 
The Weather-Vane ... 120 
The Winter Scene ... 37 
LFESORT ER Ve ile ew Ae 39 
The House of Life ... 113 
Out Where the West 
BEMAG OS sree olan: 82 
Neptune’s Steeds ..... 15 
PsOneeee BLE Me eI oe 70 
Portrait of a Lady ... 122 
The Unconquered Air. 143 
After Surtsel ree: 30 
In Blossom Time .... 151 
To the Dead in the 
Graveyard Under- 
neath My Window... 134 
Se LAGVES EY eCt ee hia ven 48 
The Green Inn ....... 18 
On a Subway Express 59 
Down the Mississippi. 40 
PP CROS CE Sy Ceuta craaies 21 
A Dakota Wheatfield.. 31 
DAES FORGE ewe aatk sone 55 
The Heroes of the 
VREON CAL SCN ee eas 163 
TRE RSHIS OO ne ca nals 114 
The Wild Ride......... 124 


X1il 


xiv Index of Authors 


PAGE 
Hagedorn, Hermann ........ The PSres seen: ah ecuiete, Ch 
Mardy ic aomas ise sae cae ene The Two Houses .... 68 
Hovey, Richard. o. .a seen. At the Crossroads .... 126 
The Sea Gypsy ceceees 14 
TPLOVE, GELCleN Mes steerer steue treo es PLUS IP OLR ACh caer ete 47 
Hubner, Lect... arses weeeelheodore Roosevelt .. 80 
Kerlmer al oycetica esercts cee NIGH Veh ec ee tee izZ7 
OOPS. ce vie hs wen ay eae 63 
Lawrence, ‘David. Herbert; Piano 5.05. 4 60 ee ee 65 
LeGallienne, Richard ........ Catalog of Lovely 
A UGS S00 s secte clea 35 
May is Building Her 
FH Ous2 beat en 29 
Lieberman,” Eliasic) 3 vane cee s The Caravels of Co- 
LUM DILE 0), ols sean 74 


McCarthy, Denis Aloysius.... Tipperary in the Spring 
Mackay, Constance D’Arcy...A Ballad of the Road. 


Malloch) ougine Sanaa. The lV (st A ee 
Warkham) ‘Ed withi) ss). 51 ose The Joy of the Hills.. 
Lincoln, The Man of 

the People. oo octeees 

The Man with the Hoe 

Maseheld, $ohttut\isoes eecrs Sede P ever va. oe chica 
Masters, Edgar Lee ......... SOME E ie ciate seeds ee 
Millay, Edna St., Vincent’... Gods) World). + .eaae 
Monroe, Hurritt? ec ois eons Mother Earth ......+- 
Morvan, Angela ans aise Cd O“DON GE. wha Mite ee 
WOTR ae Ua cee aaa 

Noyes, Alfredes (4 ..s.6 weeeeA Song of Sherwood.. 
O'Sheel -Sitaemasrn see. ce yee He Whom A Dream 
Hath Possessed .... 

Rice, Cale» Voune row aus The Chant of the Colo- 
FUG 8k Roos eas 

1 ee PINS ss Ale es 

Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt. The Path That Leads 
to Nowhere ....0+.-. 

Scollard, .Clintonei ocean The Vale of Shadows. 
meever. Alana nic sae eee I Have A Rendezvous 
With Death .......5 

Service, Robert William ..... Flewretie Sore eet 
opeyer, Leonora 3.5 sc6s sted PO CHOLLN umes yom 


Index of Authors XV 


Sutton, Edward Forrester . 


Tietjens, Eunice 


Towne, Charles Hanson .... 


Untermeyer, Jean Starr .... 


Untermeyer, Louis 


Wan Lire « Henri. uc'!. «6s 


Wheelock, John Hall 
Wilson, Margaret Adelaide 


York, Eva Rose 


Young, Ruth Comfort Mit- 
CNet tie leads ay alle ped we 


eee ee eee wwe 


.. Ihe Road to Babylon.. 100 


SL Ae LPAI ad oy ae aig 154 


The Steam Shovel .... 51 
Beyond the Stars ..... 139 


AUTUMN eo Ree 7, 
Caliban in the Coal 
tite See eit eee 5A 
Highmount .......000. 27 
LORGSCOP GS Fhinctes wats 33 
The Laughers ........ 88 
Rebelswre eae re Saas are 20 


An Angler's Wish .... 8 
Salute to the Trees ... 17 


PEGI Cech Giron one IIO 


I Shall Not Pass foe 
Wayr Agnes hile. 
He Went For A ty 


dier vere or oe ee eeere 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


PAGE 
A broken wagon wheel that rots away beside the 

EIGER NaS ene tin cee oe eR vig VHS MESO Te me ee Poe ue 76 
Aman said unto his Angel. is. ves. s. esis au ee visas 114 


Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year. 152 
All gay long thei trattic: S069 454 chess. Say eee 48 
Almost the body leads the laggard soul; bidding it see 131 


Pau wile you, cut a stonemtoer Hits. 6 pee. ud se keen ons 55 

Beneath my window in a city street ........0...0000. 51 
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans .......... 103 
Bpcliemasses Of mense green (a0 023 we ilcs fea e ewleaus 40 
Preaniuc fipure Of a mighty ager .is 2. cheese Ven cwes 80 
we don t like fo complains. (uc se ewe Sone wee eS 54 
EAHA HOSE VOUT NCAT Y BONE sata gyi) era ld ols re Ghee 110 
Metin AO. the wie DOr easier Clave. wae eeda saas ane ce’ 15 
He kept them pointed straight ahead ............... 


74 
He marched away with a blithe young score of him.. 86 
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more 


Se TALOU OES yo las bald ee ves A Pk ow ee SEE Ab bec IOI 
Her eyes are sunlit hazel Dre PC Agee olk Vie ly ad ek a 122 
Hills, you have answered the craving .............6. 37 
How can you lie so still? All day I watch ......... 134 
BeOS FAL AS It COM ADVIOH nl wa ee « cede da nd Vieng ate aelee 100 
mow memory icuisiaway the vyears acide ok ones 66 
Pra revered: with) the) Siinset ei bed ee. ie ce eee 14 
I come singing the keen sweet smell of grass ....... 6 
I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying ....... 129 
I have an understanding with the hills ............. 30 
shave a retidezvous with Death ....0. 03.566 Sides. us 92 
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea.. 105 
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses ..... 124 
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea 

SETAC AOS Pagel a a Ree an Oar Ag Yet Uo eS aM 13 
I ride on the mountain-tops, I ride)... i... vea eee 23 
Iesawia painted weathervan@ sisi. ckewesenteeah ows 120 
PReNaUiNet PASS tas | WAY BOI si eat iree kas eens 144 
BUSICKET OR, TOW S COMPANY) ava ls savas lade saabeea es 18 
Bator AU VCCRaADerOn AO ME DIS¥) ce eiuo ee dain en's tes ot 
dwho have lost the stars; the sod ..i)..i0...0.0. 0% 59 
I would make a list against the evil days ........... 35 
In the heart of night ....... aisvaedes Wee he eh Pe 68 


XVIii Index of First Lines 


PAGE 
it's.O my heart, my heart... eat cee eee eee I5I 
It sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills ... 7 
Like liquid gold the wheat field lies ................ 31 
Little park -thatcl ypass throngh 4-2 <-..es- es eee 47 
Many a tree is found in the wood ................0. 17 
May is building her house. With apple blooms ..... 29 
Men look to the East for the dawning things, for the 

light) of; 2 rising sun) fo. eek oes sp vce he ee oe ee 8I 
My brother, man, shapes him a plan ................ II 
My mother’s hands are cool and fair ............... 60 
QO beautiful for spacious ‘skies: .4..2..5. So/oe.ue enee 73 
O World, I cannot hold thee close enough .......... 46 
Oh, .a‘gratid old time has the ‘earth 222 9)..5..2. cece 136 
Oh, a gypsy longing stirs your heart ..............00. 3 
Others endure Man’s rule: he therefore deems ...... 143 
Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger ......... 82 
Partner,. remember the: hills’. /.s2:.5 24-0. eeee eee 25 
Pyres: in. the: night, in the night(ou. 62.3.4 eee 07 
Sherwood in the twilight! Is Robin Hood awake. .... 160 
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me ....... 65 
Spring! And her hidden bugles up the street...... 88 
Stiff in midsummer green, the stolid hillsides ........ 20 
The old house leans upon a tree ........... fs. ee 39 
The rain was over, and the brilliant air .............. 
The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath 

of the: night 45 ‘sweet. 205i ice es eet 2 eee 63 
The rutted roads are all like iron; the skies ........ 37 
The | Wounded..Canadian Speaks 4. 5..4.2 23. ee 93 
There'is aquest that’ ¢alls qneiioc oes eee 108 
There is a vale in the Flemish land ................ 83 
There’s a rhythm down the road where the elms 

Overarchs. 3.505 tose te eo te ewe ee eee 154 
There is something in the autumn that is native to 

my « blodd 4.04 35.5./4.0. Fasten ee eee a Le ee 45 
There’s a path that leads to Nowhere .............. 4 
They are the wise who look before ................. 113 
Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead .... 139 
To be-alive in: suchian age ...22320 66 eo ee eee 116 
When .a: wandering ‘Italtan ©, 5.0.0 2.5 0 c22 0s eee .s wee 147 
When I..am. tired. of. earnest men. 4s 4.25% seeks een 127 
When I see birches bend to left and right ........... 21 
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour... 78 
When tulips bloom in Union Square ............... 8 
Word is flashed from the Arctic Sea (“Hurry’)..... 163 
Work! Thank God for the might of it ............ 118 


You to the left and I to the right .................. 126 


A Ballad of the Road 


Constance D’Arcy Mackay 


Constance D’Arcy Mackay was born in St. Paul, Minn. She 
attended Boston University in 1903-1904, and began writing in 
New York in 1905. She is the author of a number of plays 
and historical pageants, and contributes plays, dramatic criticism 
and verse to magazines. She was director of the Department of 
Pageantry and Drama for the War Camp Community Service 
from 1918 to 1919. 


This is predominantly a lyric poem, and its musical nature should 
not be neglected in oral rendering, although it should not be 
delivered in a sing-song manner. A happy balance between an 
entirely lyric rendering and a strict prose interpretation should be 
sought. Render the last line somewhat slowly, giving full time to 
the word “all.” 

OH, a gypsy longing stirs your heart 

When Autumn’s sounding the rover’s call! 

“Oh, leave the city and leave the mart, 

Come out, come out where the red leaves fall, 

And asters flame by each stone wall! 

Have done with cares that fetter and goad, 

Heed ye and harken ye one and all, 


And know the joys of the winding road!” 


A veil of purple lies on the hills, 
Your step moves swift to some unknown air— 
Forgotten music of boughs and rills— 
The oaks are russet, the maples flare, 
The sumach’s splendor glows here and there, 
And your weary heart has slipped its load, 

3 


4 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Oh, bright the sunlight as on you fare 
Tasting the joys of the winding road! 


Odors of earth when the wild winds blow, 
New views to greet you at each hill’s crest, 
Color and beauty where’er you go— 

These shall add to your journey’s zest. 
And when the daylight dies in the west 
A star-hung roof for your night’s abode, 

A bed of pine and a dreamless rest— 
These are the joys of the winding road. 


Oh, ye of the town who do not know 

How blithe and free is the rover’s code! 
Come out, come out where the glad winds blow! 
There’s joy for all on the winding road! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


The Path that Leads to Nowhere 


Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 


Corinne Roosevelt Robinson was born in New York City in 
1861, and was educated at home. She is interested in literary, 
civic and philanthropic affairs. She has published three volumes 
of poetry: ‘‘The Call to Brotherhood and Other Poems,” “One 
Woman to Another and Other Poems,” and ‘Service and Sacrifice.”’ 


The poem below is slow in movement and its atmosphere is 
largely that of reverie. It has a certain softness, tinged with 
admiration and affection. The intervals of pitch are narrow, 
and a gently swelling force may well be employed. While this 
selection should not be delivered in a monotone, a good render- 
ing will show features of the monotone, in rather low pitch. Note 
that the ends of many of the lines should be passed without pausing. 


THERE'S a path that leads to Nowhere 
In a meadow that I know, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Where an inland island rises 
And the stream is still and slow; 
There it wanders under willows 
And beneath the silver green 
Of the birches’ silent shadows 
Where the early violets lean. 


Other pathways lead to Somewhere; 
But the one I love so well 

Has no end and no beginning— 
Just the beauty of the dell, 

Just the wildflowers and the lilies 
Yellow striped as adder’s tongue, 

Seem to satisfy my pathway 
As it winds their sweets among. 


There I go to meet the Springtime, 
When the meadow is aglow,— 
Marigolds amid the marshes,— 
And the stream is still and slow. 
There I find my fair oasis, 
And with care-free feet I tread, 
For the pathway leads to Nowhere, 
And the blue is overhead! 


All the ways that lead to Somewhere 
Echo with the hurrying feet 

Of the Struggling and the Striving, 
But the way I find so sweet 

Bids me dream and bids me linger,— 
Joy and beauty are its goal! 


6 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


On the path that leads to Nowhere 

I have sometimes found my soul! 
Reprinted by permission of the author and Charles 
Scribner’s Sons from The Poems of Corinne Roosevelt 


Robinson. Copyright, 1912, 1916, 1921, by Charles Scrib- 
ner’s Sons, 


I Come Singing © 
Joseph Auslander 


Joseph Auslander is an instructor in the Department of English, 
Harvard University. He writes poetry for The Atlantic Monthly 
and other magazines, 


Aim to voice the different emotions that respectively belong 
to the three seasons described in this exquisite poem. It will re- 
quire some skill to pass smoothly over the irregular line arrange- 
ment and maintain the thought-units. 


I coME singing the keen sweet smell of grass 
Cut after rain, 

And the cool ripple of drops that pass 

Over the grain, 

And the drenched light drifting across the plain. 


I come chanting the wild bloom of the fall, 

And the swallows 

Rallying in clans to the rapid call 

From the hollows, 

And the wet west wind swooping down on the 
swallows. 


I come shrilling the sharp white of December, 
The night like quick steel 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 7 


Swung by a gust in its plunge through the pallid 
ember 

Of dusk, and the heel 

Of the fierce green dark grinding the stars like steel. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and The New 
Republic. 


The Squall 


Leonora Speyer 


Leonora von Stosch Speyer was born in Washington, D. C. In 
addition to writing poetry, she lectures on poetry and music. 
Before her marriage to Sir Edgar Speyer, she was a violinist of 
note. 


This ingenious, accurate, and vivid description challenges the 
skill of the reader. The irregular line arrangement, in the first 
place, must be smoothly passed over and phrased in thought- 
units. Then, too, the whole poem is full of quick changes, re- 
quiring great variety in rate and force. It is one of those poems 
that may well be tried over and over with varying experiments to 
secure the best vocal effects. 

IT sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills, 
And the startled lake seems to run before it: 

From the woods comes a clamor of leaves, 
Tugging at twigs, 

Pouring from the branches, 

And suddenly the birds are still. 


Thunder crumples the sky, 

Lightning tears it. 

And now the rain. 

The rain—thudding—implacable— 

The wind, revelling in the confusion of great pines! 


8 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And a silver sifting of light, 
A coolness: 
A sense of summer anger passing, 
Of summer gentleness creeping nearer— 
Penitent—tearful— 
Forgiven ! 
Reprinted by permission of Poetry, A Magazine of 


Verse, and by permission of, and special arrangement with, 
FE. P. Dutton and Company. 


An Angler’s Wish 


Henry Van Dyke 


Henry Van Dyke was born at Germantown, Pennsylvania, in 
1852. Until recently he was active as Professor of English at 
Princeton University. In his lifetime he has attained success in 
many varied fields, having been successful as an author of poems, 
essays, and stories, and having been a minister, an educator, and 
a diplomatist. 


This poem is permeated with the breath of spring. It is bright, 
but there is a sort of lazy relaxation that qualifies the lightness. 
It is full of longing, too, but never petulant. Resignation and com- 
plete satisfaction characterize the last two stanzas, which may be de- 
livered very slowly, the vowels being prolonged and attenuated so 
as to bring out their full value. Be careful to end slowiy. 


I 


WHEN tulips bloom in Union Square, 
And timid breaths of vernal air 

Go wandering down the dusty town, 
Like children lost in Vanity Fair ; 


When every long, unlovely row 
Of westward houses stands aglow, 

And leads the eyes toward sunset skies 
Beyond the hills where green trees grow,— 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Then weary seems the street parade, 
And weary books, and weary trade: 
I’m only wishing to go a-fishing ; 
For this the month of May was made. 


2 


I guess the pussy willows now 

Are creeping out on every bough 
Along the brook; and robins look 

For early worms behind the plow. 


The thistle birds have changed their dun 

For yellow coats, to match the sun; 
And in the same array of flame 

The dandelion show’s begun. 


The flocks of young anemones 

Are dancing round the budding trees: 
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 

In days as full of joy as these? 


a 
I think the meadow lark’s clear sound 
Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 
While on the wing the bluebirds ring 
Their wedding bells to woods around. 


The flirting chewink calls his dear 
Behind the bush; and very near, 


10 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Where water flows, where green grass grows, 
Song sparrows gently sing, “Good Cheer.” 


And, best of all, through twilight’s calm 

The hermit thrush repeats his psalm. 
How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing 

In days so sweet with music’s balm! 


4 


*Tis not a proud desire of mine; 
I ask for nothing superfine ; 

No heavy weight, no salmon great, 
To break the record—or my line: 


Only an idle little stream, 
Whose amber waters softly gleam, 

Where I may wade, through woodland shade, 
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: 


Only a trout or two, to dart 
From foaming pools, and try my art: . 
No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing, 
And just a day on Nature’s heart. 
Reprinted by permission of the author, and by per- 


mission of, and by special arrangement with, Charles Scrib- 
ner’s Sons, the publishers of the author’s works. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 11 


The Chant of the Colorado 
(At the Grand Canyon) 


Cale Young Rice 


Cale Young Rice was born in Dixon, Ky., December 7th, 1872. 
He is a poet, dramatist, and short story writer, and was professor 
of English Literature in Cumberland University in 1896-1897. 
He has since devoted himself to the writing of poetry, poetic 
drama, and occasional prose. 


The majesty and beauty of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado 
are well reflected in this poem. Be sure, by due emphasis, to 
bring out the antithesis implied in the first two lines of each 
stanza. The poem as a whole should be delivered firmly, with a 
touch of the heroic. Do not, however, neglect the few lyric lines 
that appear in each stanza. Deliver the poem slowly enough to 
bring out all the grandeur, and yet not too slowly to mar the value 
of the rhyme scheme, 


My brother, man, shapes him a plan 
And builds him a house in a day, 
But I have toiled through a million years 
For a home to last alway. 
I have flooded the sands and washed them down, 
I have cut through gneiss and granite. 
No toiler of earth has wrought as I, 
Since God’s first breath began it. 
High mountain buttes have I chiselled, to shade 
My wanderings to the sea. 
With the wind’s aid, and the cloud’s aid, 
Unweary and mighty and unafraid, 
I have bodied eternity. 


My brother, man, builds for a span: 
His life is a moment’s breath. 

But I have hewn for a million years, 
Nor a moment dreamt of death. 


12 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


By moons and stars I have measured my task— 
And some from the skies have perished: 
But ever I cut and flashed and foamed, 
As ever my aim I cherished: 
My aim to quarry the heart of earth, 
Till, in rock’s red rise, 
Its age and birth, through an awful girth 
Of strata, should show the wonder-worth 
Of patience to all eyes. 


My brother, man, builds as he can, 
And beauty he adds for his joy, 

But all the hues of sublimity 
My pinnacled walls employ. 

Slow shadows iris them all day long, 
And silvery ceils, soul-stilling, 

The moon drops down their precipices, 
Soft with a spectral thrilling. 

For all immutable dreams that sway 
With beauty the earth and air, 
Are ever at play, by night and day, 
My house of eternity to array 

In visions ever fair. 


Reprinted by permission of Cale Young Rice and The 
Century Co., the publishers of Mr. Rice’s works, among 
which are “Sea Poems,’ “Shadowy Thresholds,’ “Songs 
to A. H. R.,” “Wraiths and Realities,” “Earth and New 
Earth,” and “Trails Sunward.” 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 13 


Sea Fever 


John Masefield 


John Masefield was born in Shropshire, England, in 1874. He 
ran away from home at the age of 14 and joined the navy. The 
influence of his life at sea is marked in many of his writings. He 
has written a number of dramas and novels as well as a great deal 
of poetry. 


This “call of the running tide’? requires the use of the imagina- 
tion and a sympathetic response to the spirit of the poem. Gen- 
erally speaking, the semicolon marks the division of distinct thought- 
units in each stanza. The somewhat abrupt close of each stanza 
will be helped in the oral expression by pausing before the last 
word. 


I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea 
and the sky, 

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; 

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the 
white sail’s shaking, 

And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn 
breaking. 


I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the 
running tide 

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ; 

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds 
flying, 

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the 
sea-gulls crying. 


I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant 
gypsy life, 

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the 
wind’s like a whetted knife; 


14 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing 
fellow-rover, 

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long 
trick’s over. 

Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement 


with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The Mac- 
millan Company. 


The Sea Gypsy 


Richard Hovey 


Richard Hovey was born at Normal, Illinois, May 4, 1864. He 
was on the stage for a number of years and has written many 
poems and dramas. He died Feb. 26, 1900. 


This exquisite lyric should be delivered with fervor. Reveal 
the sense clearly, but do not neglect the musical rhythm. 


I am fevered with the sunset, 

I am fretful with the bay, 
For the wander-thirst is on me 
And my soul is in Cathay. 


There’s a schooner in the offing, 
With her topsails shot with fire, 
And my heart has gone aboard her 
For the Islands of Desire. 


I must forth again to-morrow! 
With the sunset I must be, 
Hull down on the trail of rapture 
In the wonder of the sea. 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, Small, Maynard Co. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 15 


Neptune’s Steeds 


William Lawrence Chittenden 


William Lawrence Chittenden was born at Montclair, N. J., 
March 23, 1862. He began life as reporter for a New York news- 
paper, but later went to Texas and engaged in the cattle business 
in which he has been very successful. He has contributed verse 
and other matter to various periodicals under the pen-name of 
“Larry Chittenden.” He is the author of ‘‘Ranch Verses,’ 1893, 
now in the fifteenth edition (Putnams—publishers), ‘“‘Bermuda 
Verses,” 1909, “‘Lafferty’s Letters,’ etc. The following verses 
from his book, “Ranch Verses,’ evaluated by Dr. Lyman Abbott as 
the best of the author’s poems, were written at his summer home, 
“Christmas Cove,” on the coast of Maine. 


Have you ever watched from the seashore during a storm the 
white-crested waves—‘‘the wild white steeds of Neptune’’—as with 
tumultuous on-rush and resistless power they approached the 
shore? This is the picture you must see and depict as you read 
this poem. 


Hark to the wild nor’easter! 
That long, long booming roar, 
When the Storm King breathes his thunder 
Along the shuddering shore. 
The shivering air re-echoes 
The ocean’s weird refrain, 
For the wild white steeds of Neptune 
Are coming home again. 


No hand nor voice can check them, 

These stern steeds of the sea, 

They were not born for bondage, 

They are forever free. 

With arched crests proudly waving, 

Too strong for human rein, 

The wild white steeds of Neptune 
Are coming home again. 


16 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


With rolling emerald chariots 

They charge the stalwart strand, 

They gallop o’er the ledges 

And leap along the land; 

With deep chests breathing thunder 

Across the quivering plain, 

The wild white steeds of Neptune 
Are coming home again. 


Not with the trill of bugles, 

But roar of muffled drums 

And shrouded sea-weed banners, 

That mighty army comes. 

The harbor bars are moaning 

A wail of death and pain, 

For the wild white steeds of Neptune 
Are coming home again. 


Well may the sailor women 

Look out to scan the lee, 

And long for absent lovers, 

Their lovers on the sea. 

Well may the harbored seamen 

Neglect the sails and seine, 

When the wild white steeds of Neptune 
Are coming home again. 


How sad their mournful neighing, 
That wailing, haunting sound; 

It is the song of sorrow, 

A dirge for dead men drowned. 
Though we must all go seaward, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 17 


Though our watchers wait in vain, 
The wild white steeds of Neptune 
Will homeward come again. 


Reprinted by permission of the author, 


Salute to the Trees 


Henry Van Dyke 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “An Angler’s 
Wish,” page 8 


This beautiful tribute to the trees will surely bring from every 
reader a Sympathetic response. Full, round, ringing tones are 
required for effective delivery. The meter is such that you will 
need to be on your guard against falling into a ‘‘sing-song.”’ 


Many atree is found in the wood 

And every tree for its use is good: 

Some for the strength of the gnarléd root, 

Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit; 

Some for shelter against the storm, 

And some to keep the hearth-stone warm; 

Some for the roof and some for the beam, 

And some for a boat to breast the stream ;— 

In the wealth of the wood since the world began 
The trees have offered their gifts to man. 


But the glory of trees is more than their gifts: 
*Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts, 

From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod, 
A column, an arch in the temple of God, 

A pillar of power, a dome of delight, 

A shrine of song, and a joy of sight! 

Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth; 


18 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth; 
They shelter the dwellings of man; and they bend 
O’er his grave with the look of a loving friend. 


I have camped in the whispering forest of pines, 
I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines; 
In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palm, 
I have found good rest and a slumber’s balm. 
And now, when the morning gilds the boughs 
Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house, 
I open the window and make salute: 
“God bless thy branches and feed thy root! 
Thou hast lived before, live after me, 
Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree.” 

Reprinted by permission of the author and by special 


arrangement with, Charles Scribner’s Sons, the publishers 
of the author’s works. 


The Green Inn 


Theodosia Garrison Faulks 


Theodosia Garrison Faulks was born in Newark, N. J., in 1874, 
and was educated in private schools. She is the author of a 
number of poems, and contributes verse and stories to magazines. 


Where is the background of this poem, and why could it not be 
placed in our country at this time? In the delivery, watch 
especially for the proper placing of emphasis in order to express 
the thought. A slow rate, with expansion of the principal words, 
is required for the most effective reading of the last stanza, 

I stckEN of men’s company, 
The crowded tavern’s din, 
Where all day long with oath and song 


Sit they who entrance win, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


So come I out from noise and rout 
To rest in God’s Green Inn. 


Here none may mock an empty purse 
Or ragged coat and poor, 

But Silence waits within the gates 
And Peace beside the door; 

The weary guest is welcomest, 
The richest pays no score. 


The roof is high and arched and blue, 
The floor is spread with pine; 

On my four walls the sunlight falls 
In golden flecks and fine; 

And swift and fleet on noiseless feet 
The Four Winds bring me wine. 


Upon my board they set their store, 
Great drinks mixed cunningly, 
Wherein the scent of furze is blent 
With the odor of the sea; 
As from a cup I drink it up 

To thrill the veins of me. 


It’s I will sit in God’s Green Inn 
Unvexed by man or ghost, 

Yet ever fed and comforted, 
Companioned by my host, 


And watched by night by that white light 


High swung from coast to coast. 


O you who in the House of Strife 
Quarrel and game and sin, 


19 


20 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Come out and see what cheer may be 
For starveling souls and thin 

Who come at last from drought and fast 
To sit in God’s Green Inn. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Scribner's 
Magazine. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


Rebels 


Louis Untermeyer 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Laughers,”’ 


Page 88. 


This unique fancy, built around a single phenomenon in nature, 
will appeal especially to residents of the northern sections, where 
the scene described is frequently observed. 


STIFF in midsummer green, the stolid hillsides 
March with their trees, dependable and staunch, 

Except where here and there a lawless maple 
Thrusts to the sky one red, rebellious branch. 


You see them standing out, these frank insurgents, 
With that defiant and arresting plume; 

Scattered, they toss this flame like some wild signal, 
Calling their comrades to a brilliant doom. 


What can it mean—this strange, untimely challenge; 
This proclamation of an early death? 

Are they so tired of earth they fly the banner 
Of dissolution and a bleeding faith? 


Or is it, rather than a brief defiance, 
An anxious welcome to a vivid strife? 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 21 


A glow, a heart-beat, and a bright acceptance 
Of all the rich exuberance of life. 


Rebellious or resigned, they flaunt their color, 
A sudden torch, a burning battle-cry. 

“Light up the world,” they wave to all the others; 
“Swiftly we live and splendidly we die.” 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry 
Holt and Company. 


Birches 


Robert Frost 


Robert Frost was born in San Francisco in 1875, but was 
brought up in New England. Most of his poetry deals with life 
in the North Atlantic States. He is now professor of English in 
the University of Michigan. Among his books are “North of 
Boston,” “A Boy’s Will,’ and “Mountain Interval,’ all published 
by Henry Holt and Co., New York. 


This teasing sort of verse—more than half conversational—is 
difficult to render, but pleasing when it is rendered well. Bring 
out the picture in the early part of the poem, and the philosophy 
toward the end. 


WHEN I see birches bend to left and right 

Across the lines of straighter darker trees, 

I like to think some boy’s swinging them. 

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. 

Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them 

After a rain. They click upon themselves 

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored 

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. 

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal 
shells 

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— 


22 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away 

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. 

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the 
load, 

And they seem not to break; though once they are 
bowed 

So low for long, they never right themselves: 

You may see their trunks arching in the woods 

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground 

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair 

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. 

But I was going to say when Truth broke in 

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm 

(Now am I free to be poetical?) 

I should prefer to have some boy bend them 

As he went out and in to fetch the cows— 

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, 

Whose only play was what he found himself, 

Summer or winter, and could play alone. 

One by one he subdued his father’s trees 

By riding them down over and over again 

Until he took the stiffness out of them, 

And not one but hung limp, not one was left 

For him to conquer. He learned all there was 

To learn about not launching out too soon 

And so not carrying the tree away 

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise 

To the top branches, climbing carefully 

With the same pains you use to fill a cup 

Up to the brim, and even above the brim. 

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, 

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 23 


So was I once myself a swinger of birches. 

And so I dream of going back to be. 

It’s when I’m weary of considerations, 

And life is too much like a pathless wood 

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs 
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping 

From a twig’s having lashed across it open. 

I'd like to get away from earth awhile 

And then come back to it and begin over. 

May no fate willfully misunderstand me 

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away 
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: 

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better. 

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree, 

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk 
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, 
But dipped its top and set me down again. 

That would be good both going and coming back. 
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 


Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. 


The Joy of the Hills 


Edwin Markham 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Man 
with the Hoe,” page 103. 


There is joy and expansion in this poem. Deliver it with sweep 
and abandon. Because the scene changes so often, it is best to 
read this selection from the book. 

I r1DE on the mountain-tops, I ride; 


1 have found my life and am satisfied. 


24 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Onward I ride in the blowing oats, 
Checking the field-lark’s rippling notes— 
Lightly I sweep 
From steep to steep: 
Over my head through the branches high 
Come glimpses of a rushing sky; 
The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks; 
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; 
A bee booms out of the scented grass; 
A jay laughs with me as I pass. 


I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget 
Life’s hoard of regret— 
All the terror and pain 
Of the chafing chain. 
Grind on, O cities, grind: 
I leave you a blur behind, 
I am lifted elate—the skies expand: 
Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand. 
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls: 
I ride with the voices of waterfalls! 
I swing on as one in a dream—lI swing 
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing! | 
The world is gone like an empty word: | 
My body’s a bough in the wind, my heart a bird! 
Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright by 
Edwin Markham. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 25 


The Hills 


Berton Braley 


Berton Braley was born in 1882. He is a newspaper man, a 
poet, and a novelist. During the war he was a special correspond- 
ent in northern Europe. 


Read this poem with a rugged grandeur akin to that of the 
mountains that are described. Note, however, the change in mood 
in the early part of the last stanza. 


PARTNER, remember the hills? 

The gray, barren, bleak old hills 

We knew so well— 

Not those gentle, placid slopes that swell 
In lazy undulations, lush and green. 

No; the real hills, the jagged crests, 

The sharp and sheer-cut pinnacles of earth 
That stand against the azure—gaunt, serene, 
Careless of all our little worsts and bests, 
Our sorrow and our mirth! 


Partner, remember the hills? 

Those snow-crowned, granite battlements of hills 
We loved of old. 

They stood so calm, inscrutable and cold, 
Somehow it never seemed they cared at all 

For you or me, our fortunes or our fall, 

And yet we felt their thrall; 

And ever and forever to the end 

We shall not cease, my friend, 

To hear their call. 


26 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Partner, remember the hills? 

The grim and massive majesty of hills 

That soared so far, 

Seeming, at night, to scrape against a star. 

Do you remember how we lay at night 

(When the great herd had settled down to sleep) 
And watched the moonshine—white 

Against the peaks all garlanded with snow, 

While soft and low 

The night wind murmured in our ears—and so 
We wrapped our blankets closer, looked again 
At those great shadowy mountain-tops, and then 
Sank gently to our deep 

And quiet sleep? 


Partner, remember the hills? 
The real hills, the true hills. 
Ah, I have tried 
To brush the memory of them aside; 
To learn to love 
Those fresh, green hills the poets carol of; 
But the old gray hills of barrenness still hold 
My heart so much in thrall 
That I forget the beauty all about, 
The grass and flowers and all; 
And just cry out 
To take again the faint and wind-swept trail, 
To see my naked mountains, shale and snow, 
To feel again the hill-wind and to know 
The spell that shall not fail. 
Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, 


Geo. H. Doran Company, from Songs of the Workaday 
World. Copyright, 1915. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 27 


Highmount 


Louis Untermeyer 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Laughers,” 
page 88. 


This exquisite poem may well test the imagination of the reader. 
Bring out the contrast between the restless impatience of the sea 
and the calm solidity of the hills. Do not forget the rhyme. 


Hits, you have answered the craving 
That spurred me to come; 

You have opened your deep blue bosom 
And taken me home. 


The sea had filled me with the stress 

Of its own restlessness ; 

My voice was in that angry roll 

Of passion beating upon the world. 

The ground beneath me shifted; I was swirled 

In an implacable flood that howled to see 

Its breakers rising in me, 

A torrent rushing through my soul, 

And tearing things free. 

I could not control 

A monstrous impatience, a stubborn and vain 

Repetition of madness and longing, of question and 
pain, 

Driving me up to the brow of this hill— 

Calling and questioning still. 


And you—you smile 
In ordered calm; 


28 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


You wrap yourself in cloudy contemplation while 

The winds go shouting their heroic psalm; 

The streams press lovingly about your feet 

And trees, like birds escaping from the heat, 

Sit in great flocks and fold their broad green 
wings. ... 

A cow bell rings 

Like a sound blurred by sleep, 

Giving the silence a rhythm 

That makes it twice as deep... 

Somewhere a farm-hand sings... 


And here you stand 

Breasting the elemental sea, 

And put forth an invisible hand 

To comfort me. 

Rooted in quiet confidence, you rise 

Above the frantic and assailing years; 

Your silent faith is louder than the cries; 
The shattering fears 

Break and subside when they encounter you. 
You know their doubts, the desperate questions— 
And the answers too. 


Hills, you are strong; and my burdens 
Are scattered like foam; 

You have opened your deep blue bosom 
And taken me home. 


Reprinted by permission of the author, and by permission 
of, and special arrangement with, Henry Holt and Company. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 29 


May is Building Her House 


Richard Le Gallienne 


Richard Le Gallienne was born in Liverpool, January 20, 1866. 
He is a journalist and man of letters. He was educated at Liver- 
pool College and has published numerous poems, sonnets, and 
essays. 


This beautiful fancy should be rendered with tenderness and 
delight. There is much music in the rhyme, which should be fully 
developed. Paint each picture as vividly as possible without de- 
stroying the onward flow of the verse. 


May is building her house. With apple blooms 
She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; 

Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, 
And spinning all day at her secret looms, 

With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall 

She pictureth over, and peopleth it all 
With echoes and dreams, 
And singing of streams. 


May is building her house. Of petal and blade, 

Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made, 
With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, 
Each small miracle over and over, 

And tender, traveling green things strayed. 


Her windows, the morning and evening star, 
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar 

With the coming and going 

Of fair things blowing, 
The thresholds of the four winds are, 


30 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


May is building her house. From the dust of things 
She is making the songs and the flowers and the 
Wings ; 
From October’s tossed and trodden gold 
She is making the young year out of the old; 
Yea: Out of winter’s flying sleet 
She is making all the summer sweet, 
And the brown leaves spurned of November’s 
feet 
She is changing back again into spring’s. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Harper and 
Brothers, publishers of the author’s works. 


After Sunset 


Grace Hazard Conkling 


Grace Hazard Conkling was born in New York City. She entered 
Smith College in 1899 and later studied music and languages in 
Heidelberg and Paris. She married Roscoe Platt Conkling in 
r90s. She is teaching English in Smith College at the present 
time, and contributes poems to a number of the leading magazines 
of the country. 


An effective oral interpretation of this intimate study of one of 
Nature’s most impressive phenomena requires slow rate, with 
appropriate tone-color to depict the varying scenes and sentiments. 


I HAVE an understanding with the hills 

At evening, when the slanted radiance fills 

Their hollows, and the great winds let them be, 
And they are quiet and look down at me. 

Oh, then I see the patience in their eyes 

Out of the centuries that made them wise. 

They lend me hoarded memory, and I learn 
Their thoughts of granite and their whims of fern. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 31 


And why a dream of forests must endure 
Though every tree be slain; and how the pure, 
Invisible beauty has a word so brief 

A flower can say it, or a shaken leaf, 

But few may ever snare it in a song, 

Though for the quest a life is not too long. 
When the blue hills grow tender, when they pull 
The twilight close with gesture beautiful, 

And shadows are their garments, and the air 
Deepens, and the wild veery is at prayer, 

Their arms are strong around me; and I know 
That somehow I shall follow when they go 

To the still land beyond the evening star, 
Where everlasting hills and valleys are, 

And silence may not hurt us any more, 

And terror shall be past, and grief and war. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry Holt 
and Company. 


A Dakota Wheat Field 


Hamlin Garland 


Hamlin Garland was born in West Salem, Wisconsin, on Septem- 
ber 16, 1860. He is a novelist and dramatist. As a boy he worked 
on a farm and went to school, and later taught school in Illinois. 
He began to write stories about 1893. 


Residents of states having expansive wheat fields will recognize 
how true to nature is the following beautiful description. The 
poem, especially in the second stanza, offers opportunity for the 
study of changes in rate to express changing scenes and emotions. 


LixeE liquid gold the wheat field lies, 


A marvel of yellow and russet and green, 
That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, 


32 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen 
That play in the golden hair of a girl,— 
A ripple of amber—a flare 
Of light sweeping after—a curl 
In the hollows. Like swirling feet 
Of fairy waltzers, the colors run 
To the western sun 
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. 


Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky, 
Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea, 
The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye 
Under the fierce sun’s alchemy. 
The slow hawk stoops 
To his prey in the deeps; 
The sunflower droops 
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps. 
Then all in dazzling links and loops, 
A riot of shadow and shine, 
A glory of olive and amber and wine, 
To the westering sun the colors run 
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. 


O glorious land! My Western land, » 
Outspread beneath the setting sun! 
Once more amid your swells I stand, 
And cross your sod lands dry and dun. 
I hear the jocund calls of men 
Who sweep amid the ripened grain, 
With swift, stern reapers, once again. 
The evening splendor floods the plain: 
The crickets’ chime 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Makes pauseless rhyme, 

And toward the sun 

The splendid colors ramp and run 
Before the wind’s feet 

In the wheat! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Landscapes 


Louis Untermeyer 


33 


For biographical note concerning the author, see ‘’The Laughers,” 


page 88. 


The varied scenes and objects so beautifully portrayed in this 
poem, together with the contrasting picture toward the close, should 
be clearly shown by due emphasis, while the rhythm of the whole 


should not be neglected. 


THE rain was over, and the brilliant air 
Made every little blade of grass appear 
Vivid and startling—everything was there 
With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, 
As though one saw it in a crystal sphere. 


The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; 
The golden-rod with all its million fires; 

(A million torches swinging in the wind) 

A single poplar, marvelously thinned, 

Half like a naked body, half like a sword; 
Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; 
A group of pansies with their shrewish faces, 
Little old ladies cackling over laces; 


The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; 


The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; 


34 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field— 
How bountifully were they all revealed! 
How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive— 
So frank and strong, so radiantly alive! 


And over all the morning-minded earth 

There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, 
Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw 

The toad face heaven without shame or awe, 

The ant confront the stars, and every weed 

Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; 

While all the things that die and decompose 

Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose... . 
Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive 
And keep the very dirt that died, alive! 


And now I saw the slender willow-tree, 

No longer calm or drooping listlessly, 

Letting its languid branches sway and fall 

As though it danced in some sad ritual; 

But rather like a young athletic girl, 

Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, 

And flying in the wind—her head thrown back, 
Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, 
And all her rushing spirits running over... . 
What made a sober tree seem stich a rover— 
Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, 
That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, 
Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, 
And burn the trembling orchard there below? 
What lit the heart of every golden-glow— 

Oh, why was nothing weary, dull, or tame? ... 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 35 


Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth 
That drives the vast and energetic earth. 


And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, 

I saw the huddled tenements arise. 

Here where the merry clover danced and shone 

Sprang agonies of iron and stone; 

There, where the green Silence laughed or stood 
enthralled, 

Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled. 

The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; 

Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills— 

The menace of these things swept over me; 

A threatening, unconquerable sea... . 


A stirring landscape and a generous earth! 
Freshening courage and benevolent mirth— 
And then the city, like a hideous sore... . 
Good God, and what is all this beauty for? 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry Holt 
and Company. 


Catalog of Lovely Things 


Richard Le Gallienne 


For biographical mention of Richard Le Gallienne see ‘‘May is 
Building Her House,” page 29. 

Do you think that the author has omitted anything in this 
“Catalog of Lovely Things’? In any event, you will need to go 
slowly in rendering these lines, in order that the things successively 
mentioned may be duly appreciated and impressed. 


I woutp make a list against the evil days 
Of lovely things to hold in memory: 


36 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


First, I set down my lady’s lovely face, 
For earth hath no such lovely thing as she; 
And next I add, to bear her company, 

The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings; 
Then the wild rose upon its little tree— 

So runs my catalog of lovely things. 


The enchanted dogwood, with its ivory trays; 
The water-lily in its sanctuary 

Of reeded pools; and dew-drenched lilac sprays: 
For these, of all fair flowers, the fairest be. 
Next write I down the great name of the sea, 

Lonely in greatness as the names of kings; 
Then the young moon that hath us all in fee— 

So runs my catalog of lovely things. 


Imperial sunsets that in crimson blaze 
Along the hills; and, fairer still to me, 

The fireflies dancing in a netted maze 
Woven of twilight and tranquillity ; 
Shakespeare and Virgil—their high poesy; 

And a great ship, splendid with snowy wings, 
Voyaging on into Eternity— 

So runs my catalog of lovely things. 


ENVOI 


Prince, not the gold bars of thy treasury, 

Not all thy jeweled scepters, crowns, and rings, 
Are worth the honeycomb of the wild bee— 
So runs my catalog of lovely things. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Harper and 
Brothers, the publishers of the author’s works. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 37 


The Winter Scene 


Bliss Carman 


Bliss Carman was born at Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 
1861. He was educated at the University of New Brunswick, the 
University of Edinburgh, and Harvard. He studied law and was 
engaged in editorial work, but since 1894 has devoted himself 
entirely to literary pursuits. He is the author of many volumes 
of prose and verse. 


The following blank-verse description of a northern winter runs 
true to form, having a more expansive background than the more 
localized and specific descriptions found in Whittier’s “Snow 
Bound.” If the reader keenly visualizes the scenes described, the 
vocal rendition will offer no special difficulty. 


I 


THE rutted roads are all like iron; the skies 
Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling 
In the bare woods, or hardy bitter-sweet ; 
Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on; 
And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice 
That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick, 
Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop. 
Bring in the logs of oak and hickory, 

And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth. 
Now is the time, with winter o’er the world, 
For books and friends and yellow candle-light, 
And timeless lingering by the settling fire, 

While all the shuddering stars are keen and cold. 


2 


Out of the silent portal of the hours, 

When frosts are come and all the hosts put on 
Their burnished gear to march across the night 
And o’er a darkened earth in splendor whine, 


38 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Slowly above the world Orion wheels 

His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill 
And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk, 
Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue. 

Lord of the winter night, august and pure, 
Returning year on year untouched by time, 

To kindle faith with thy immortal fire, 

There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease, 

No ills that love cannot at last repair, 

In the courageous progress of the soul 


3 


Russet and white and gray is the oak wood 

In the great snow. Still from the North it comes, 
Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees, 
O’erloading branch and twig. The road is lost. 
Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond 
Are made once more a trackless wilderness 

In the white hush where not a creature stirs; 
And the pale sun is blotted from the sky. 

In that strange twilight the lone traveller halts 
To listen while the stealthy snowflakes fall. 
And then far off toward the Stamford shore, 
Where through the storm the coastwise liners go, 
Faint and recurrent on the muddled air, 

A foghorn booming through the smother,—hark! 


4 


When the day changed and the mad wind died 
down, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 39 


The powdery drifts that all day long had blown 
Across the meadows and the open fields, 

Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun, 
Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour 

The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow 
Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light 
Flooded the earth with glory and with peace, 

Then in the west behind the cedars black 

The sinking sun made red the winter dusk 
With sudden flare along the snowy ridge,— 

Like a rare masterpiece by Hokusai, 

Where on a background gray, with flaming breath 
The crimson dragon dies in dusky gold. 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Deserted 


Madison Cawein 


Madison Cawein was born at Louisville, Kentucky in 1865, and 
died in 1915. He began writing at twenty-two years of age and 
continued until his death, He was preéminently a poet of Nature. 


Picture yourself abroad on such a night as the poet here 
describes. See the old, deserted house. Strive to reproduce in 
yourself the emotions you would feel when contemplating it. 
The pitch is low, the movement slow. 


THe old house leans upon a tree 
Like some old man upon a staff; 

The night wind in its ancient porch 
Sounds like a hollow laugh. 


The heaven is wrapped in flying clouds 
As grandeur cloaks itself in gray: 


40 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The starlight, fluttering in and out, 
Glints like a lanthorn ray. 


The dark is full of whispers. Now 

A fox-hound howls: and through the night, 
Like some old ghost from out its grave, 

The moon comes misty white. 


Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, E. P. Dutton and Company. 


Down the Mississippi 


John Gould Fletcher 


John Gould Fletcher was born at Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1886. 
He was educated at Harvard, but soon after went to England, 
where he has since spent most of his time. His early works were 
highly fanciful, but “‘Lincoln” and his later works are strong and 
moving. His works include “‘Goblins and Pagodas,’’ published by 
Houghton Mifflin and Co., ‘‘The Tree of Life,” published by Chatto 
and Windus, London, and ‘Breakers and Granite,” published by 
The Macmillan Company, New York. 


This composition might well be styled a “poem of pictures and 
moods.” The moods are the result of the pictures. Let the 
reader see the different scenes vividly and let them work their 
magic upon his “bodily texture.’’ Notice a certain unity, too, 
through the entire poem. Do not neglect the sublimity of the last 
lines. 


Embarkation 


DuLit masses of dense green, 

The forests range their sombre platforms. 
Between them silently, like a spirit, 

The river finds its own mysterious path. 


Loosely the river sways out, backward, forward, 
Always fretting the outer side; 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 41 


Shunning the invisible focus of each crescent, 
Seeking to spread into shining loops over fields: 


Like an enormous serpent, dilating, uncoiling, 

Displaying a broad scaly back of earth-smeared 
gold; 

Swaying out sinuously between the dull motionless 
forests, 

As molten metal might glide down the lip of a 
vase of dark bronze. 


Heat 


As if the sun had trodden down the sky, 

Until no more it holds air for us, but only humid 
vapor, 

The heat, pressing upon earth with irresistible 
languor, 

Turns all the solid forest into half-liquid smudge. 


The heavy clouds, like cargo-boats, strain slowly 
up ’gainst its current ; 

And the flickering of the heat haze is like the 
churning of ten thousand paddles 

Against the heavy horizon, pale blue and utterly 
windless, 

Whereon the sun hangs motionless, a brassy disk 
of flame. 


Full Moon 


Flinging its arc of silver bubbles, quickly shifts the 
moon 


42 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


From side to side of us as we go down its path; 

I sit on the deck at midnight, and watch it slipping 
and sliding, 

Under my tilted chair, like a thin film of spilt water. 


It is weaving a river of light to take the place of this 
river— 

A river where we shall drift all night, then come 
to rest in its shallows. 

And then I shall wake from my drowsiness and look 
down from some dim tree-top 

Over white lakes of cotton, like moon-fields on 
every side. 


The Moon’s Orchestra 


When the moon lights up 

Its dull red camp-fire through the trees; 

And floats out, like a white balloon, 

Into the blue cup of the night, borne by a casual 
breeze; 

The moon-orchestra then begins to stir: 

Jiggle of fiddles commence their crazy dance in the 
darkness ; 

Crickets churr 

Against the stark reiteration of the rusty flutes 
which frogs 

Puff at from rotted logs 

In the swamp. 

And the moon begins her dance of frozen pomp 

Over the lightly quivering floor of the flat and 
mournful river. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 43 


Her white feet slightly twist and swirl— 

She is a mad girl 

In an old unlit ball-room, 

Whose walls, half-guessed-at through the gloom, 

Are hung with the rusty crape of stark black 
cypresses, 

Which show, through gaps and tatters, red stains 
half hidden away. 


The Stevedores 


Frieze of warm bronze that glides with cat-like 
movements 
Over the gang-plank poised and yet awaiting— 
The sinewy thudding rhythms of forty shuffling 
feet ; 
Falling like muffled drum-beats on the stillness: 
Oh, roll the cotton down— 
Roll, roll, the cotton down! 
From the further side of Jordan, 
Oh, roll the cotton down! 
And the river waits, 
The river listens, 
Chuckling with little banjo-notes that break with a 
plop on the stillness. 
And by the low dark shed that holds the heavy 
freights, 
Two lonely cypress trees stand up and point with 
stiffened fingers 
Far southward where a single chimney stands aloof 
in the sky. 


44 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Night Landing 


After the whistle’s roar has bellowed and shuddered, 

Shaking the sleeping town and the somnolent river, 

The deep-toned floating of the pilot’s bell 

Suddenly warns the engines. 

They pause like heart-beats that abruptly stop: 

The shore glides to us, in a wide low curve. 

And then—supreme revelation of the river— 

The tackle is loosed, the long gang-plank swings 
outwards; 

And poised at the end of it, half naked beneath the 
searchlight, 

A blue-black negro with gleaming teeth waits for 
his chance to leap. 


The Silence 


There is a silence which I carry about with me 
always— 

A silence perpetual, for it is self-created; 

A silence of heat, of water, of unchecked fruit- 
fulness, 

Through which each year the heavy harvests bloom, 
and burst, and fall. 


Deep, matted green silence of my South, 

Often, within the push and the scorn of great cities, 

I have seen that mile-wide waste of water swaying 
out to you, 

And on its current glimmering I am going to the sea. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 45 


There is a silence I have achieved—I have walked 
beyond its threshold. 
I know it is without horizons, boundless, fathom- 
_less, perfect. 
And some day, maybe, far away, 
I shall curl up in it at last and sleep an endless sleep. 
Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The 
Macmillan Company. 


A Vagabond Song 


Bliss Carman 


For biographical note concerning the author, see ‘‘The Winter 
Scene,” page 37. 


This is truly a song, but do not fail to reveal the emotions 
stirred by the flitting visions of autumn. 


THERE is something in the autumn that is native to 
my blood— 

Touch of manner, hint of mood; 

And my heart is like a rhyme, 

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson 
keeping time. 


The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 
Of bugles going by, 

And my lonely spirit thrills 

To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 


There is something in October sets the gypsy blood 
astir ; 


46 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


We must rise and follow her, 
When from every hill of flame 
She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 


Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, Small, Maynard and Co. 


God’s World 
Edna St. Vincent Millay 


Edna St. Vincent Millay was born at Camden, Maine, and was 
educated at Vassar College. Some of her published volumes are 
‘Renascence and Other Poems,” ‘Second April,” both published by 
Mitchell Kennerley, New York, and “Some Figs from Thistles,” 
published by Frank Shay, New York. 


Seldom does such passion as this succeed in revealing itself in 
verse. Restraint must characterize any reading of this poem, but 
such a restraint as threatens every moment to break out of bounds. 
A holding back upon the beginning of the words, and an impas- 
sioned emphasis upon the latter parts of them may help the reader. 


O Wor tp, I cannot hold thee close enough! 

Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! 

Thy mists that roll and rise! 
Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag 
And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag 
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! 
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! 


Long have I known a glory in it all, 

But never knew [I this; 

Here such a passion is 
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear 
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; 
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall 
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. 


Reprinted by permission of Mitchell Kennerley. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 47 


Ellis Park 


Helen Hoyt 


Helen Hoyt (Mrs. W. W. Lyman) was born at Norwalk, Conn., 
and educated at Barnard College, where she was graduated in 1909. 
She taught for a while in the Middle West, later joining the staff 
of Poetry and becoming Associate Editor. She now resides at 
St. Helena, Calif. 


Let the tone of this poem be that of affection,—almost childish 
tenderness, 


LittLe park that I pass through, 

I carry off a piece of you 

Every morning hurrying down 

To my work-day in the town; 

Carry you for country there 

To make the city ways more fair. 

I take your trees, 

And your breeze, 

Your greenness, 

Your cleanness, 

Some of your shade, some of your sky, 
Some of your calm as I go by; 

Your flowers to trim 

The pavements grim; 

Your space for room in the jostled street, 
And grass for carpet to my feet. 
Your fountains take, and sweet bird calls, 
To sing me from my office walls; 

‘All that I can see 

I carry off with me. 

But you never miss my theft, 

So much treasure you have left. 

As I find you, fresh at morning, 

So I find you, home returning— 


48 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Nothing lacking from your grace. 
All your riches wait in place 

For me to borrow 

On the morrow. 


Do you hear this praise of you, 
Little park that I pass through? 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


In Lady Street 


John Drinkwater 


John Drinkwater, the author of the famous play Abraham Lincoln, 
was born in 1882. He has published essays, poems, and plays, and 
has been general manager of the Birmingham (England) Repertory 
Theatre. Most of his poems are meditative in mood. 


In reading this poem be sure to reveal the ugliness of the 
scene in the opening lines, and then transform that ugliness into 
beauty worthy of admiration. Low tones will mark the opening of 
the poem with traces of the guttural quality. Later the tone is 
higher and brighter, and abounds in waves of wonder and beauty. 


ALL day long the traffic goes 

In Lady Street by dingy rows 

Of sloven houses, tattered shops— 

Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers— 
Tall trams on silver-shining rails, 

With grinding wheels and swaying tops, 

And lorries with their corded bales, 

And screeching cars. “Buy, buy!” the sellers 
Of rags and bones and sickening meat 

Cry all day long in Lady Street. 


And when the sunshine has its way 
In Lady Street, then all the gray 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Dull desolation grows in state 

More dull and gray and desolate, 

And the sun is a shamefast thing, 

A lord not comely-housed, a god 
Seeing what gods must blush to see, 

A song where it is ill to sing, 

And each gold ray despiteously 

Lies like a gold ironic rod. 

Yet one gray man in Lady Street 
Looks for the sun. He never bent 
Life to his will, his traveling feet 
Have scaled no cloudy continent, 

Nor has the sickle-hand been strong. 
He lies in Lady Street; a bed, 

Four cobwebbed walls. But all day long 
A tune is singing in his head 

Of youth in Gloucester lanes. He hears 
The wind among the barley-blades, 
The tapping of the woodpeckers 

On the smooth beeches, thistle-spades 
Slicing the sinewy roots; he sees 

The hooded filberts in the copse 
Beyond the loaded orchard trees, 

The netted avenues of hops; 

He smells the honeysuckle thrown 
Along the hedge. He lives alone, 
Alone—yet not alone, for sweet 

Are Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. 


Ay, Gloucester lanes. For down below 
The cobwebbed room this gray man plies 


49 


50 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


A trade, a colored trade. A show 

Of many-colored merchandise 

Is in his shop. Brown filberts there 
And apples red with Gloucester air, 
And cauliflowers he keeps, and round 
Smooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground, 
Fat cabbages and yellow plums, 

And gaudy brave chrysanthemums. 
And times a glossy pheasant lies 
Among his store, not Tyrian dyes 
More rich than are the neck-feathers; 
And times a prize of violets, 

Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinned, 
And times an unfamiliar wind 

Robbed of its woodland favor stirs 
Gay daffodils this gray man sets 

Among his treasure. 


All day long 
In Lady Street the traffic goes 
By dingy houses, desolate rows 
Of shops that stare like hopeless eyes. 
Day long the sellers cry their cries, 
The fortune-tellers tell no wrong 
Of lives that know not any right, 
And drift, that has not even the will 
To drift, toils through the day until 
The wage of sleep is won at night. 
But this gray man heeds not all 
The hell of Lady Street. His stall 
Of many~<colored merchandise 
Makes a shining paradise, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 51 


As all day long chrysanthemums 
He sells, and red and yellow plums 
And cauliflowers. In that one spot 
Of Lady Street the sun is not 
Ashamed to shine, and send a rare 
Shower of color through the air, 
The gray man says. 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, Houghton Mifflin Company. 


The Steam Shovel 


Eunice Tietjens 


Eunice Tietjens was born in Chicago in 1884. Her maiden 
name was Eunice Hammond, but she married Paul Tietjens, the 
composer, in 1904. She has been an associate editor of Poetry, and 
during the war was correspondent to the Chicago Daily News. 
In 1920 she married Cloyd Head, the writer. 


Read this poem with great restrained force. Use low pitch and 
a certain plunging utterance that takes its form from the action of 
the steam shovel or the earlier monster. Note the change in 
mood, however, toward the end. 

BENEATH my window in a city street 

A monster lairs, a creature huge and grim 

And only half believed: the strength of him— 
Steel-strung and fit to meet 

The strength of earth— 

Is mighty as men’s dreams that conquer force. 
Steam belches from him. He is the new birth 
Of old Behemoth, late-sprung from the source 
Whence Grendel sprang, and all the monster clan 
Dead for an age, now born again of man. 


52 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The iron head, 

Set on a monstrous jointed neck, 

Glides here and there, lifts, settles on the red 
Moist floor, with nose dropped in the dirt, at beck 
Of some incredible control. 

He snorts, and pauses couchant for a space; 
Then slowly lifts, and tears the gaping hole 
Yet deeper in earth’s flank. A sudden race 
Of loosened earth and pebbles trickles there 
Like blood-drops in a wound. 

But he, the monster, swings his load around,— 
Weightless it seems as air— 

His mammoth jaw 

Drops widely open with a rasping sound, 

And all the red earth vomits from his maw. 


O thwarted monster, born at man’s decree, 

A lap-dog dragon, eating from his hand 

And doomed to fetch and carry at command, 
Have you no longing ever to be free? 

In warm electric days to run a-muck, 

Ranging like some mad dinosaur, 

Your fiery heart at war 

With this strange world, the city’s restless ruck, 
Where all drab things that toil, save you alone, 
Have life; 

And you the semblance only, and the strife? 
Do you not yearn to rip the roots of stone 

Of these great piles men build, 

And hurl them down with shriek of shattered steel, 
Scorning your own sure doom, so you may feel, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 53 


You too, the lust with which your fathers killed? 
Or is your soul in very deed so tame, 

The blood of Grendel watered to a gruel, 

That you are well content 

With heart of flame 

Thus placidly to chew your cud of fuel 

And toil in peace for man’s aggrandizement ? 


Poor helpless creature of a half-grown god, 
Blind of yourself and impotent! 
At night, 
When your forerunners, sprung from quicker sod, 
Would range through primal woods, hot on the 
scent, 

Or wake the stars with amorous delight, 
You stand, a soiled, unwieldy mass of steel, 
Black in the arc-light, modern as your name, 
Dead and unsouled and trite; 
Till I must feel 
A quick creator’s pity for your shame: 
That man, who made you and who gave so much, 
Yet cannot give the last transforming touch; 
That with the work he cannot give the wage— 
For day, no joy of night, 
For toil, no ecstasy of primal rage. 

Reprinted from Body and Raiment by Eunice Tietjens, 


by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized 
publishers. 


54. School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Caliban in the Coal Mines 


Loms Untermeyer 


For biographical note concerning the author, see ‘‘Landscapes,” 
page 33. 


¢ Do not read this poem in a weak, complaining way. Rather let 
it be the medium for heroic resignation. Do not neglect the 
magnificent emotional outburst in the last two lines. 


Gop, we don’t like to complain— 
We know that the mine is no lark— 

But—there’s the pools from the rain; 
But—there’s the cold and the dark. 


God, You don’t know what it is— 
You, in Your well-lighted sky— 

Watching the meteors whizz; 
Warm, with the sun always by. 


God, if You had but the moon 
Stuck in Your cap for a lamp, 
Even You'd tire of it soon, 
Down in the dark and the damp. 


Nothing but blackness above 

And nothing that moves but the cars. .. . 
God, if You wish for our love, 

Fling us a handful of stars! 


From Challenge by Louis Untermeyer. Copyright, 1920, 
by Harcourt, Brace, and Howe, Inc. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 55 


The Stone 


Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 


Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was born at Hexam, England, in 1878. 
His early work was sentimental and romantic, but in his later 
works he has set forth boldly the life of the working people. His 
later books include ‘‘The Stonefolds,” published by the Samurai 
Press, London, “Daily Bread,’? published by Elkin Mathews, 
London, and ‘‘Fires,’”’ also published by Elkin Mathews and The 
Macmillan Company, New York. 


Great restraint should characterize the reading of this poem, 
All the varying moods are felt under the spell of the great mastere 
mood of tragedy. 

“AND will you cut a stone for him, 
To set above his head? 

And will you cut a stone for him— 
A stone for him?” she said. 


Three days before, a splintered rock 
Had struck her lover dead— 

Had struck him in the quarry dead, 
Where, careless of the warning call, 
He loitered, while the shot was fired— 
A lively stripling, brave and tall, 

And sure of all his heart desired. ... 
A flash, a shock, 

ARcumbling fail i. 

And, broken ’neath the broken rock, 
A lifeless heap, with face of clay, 
And still as any stone he lay, 

With eyes that saw the end of all. 


56 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


I went to break the news to her; 

And I could hear my own heart beat 
With dread of what my lips might say. 
But some poor fool had sped before; 
And flinging wide her father’s door, 
Had blurted out the news to her, 

Had struck her lover dead for her, 
Had struck the girl’s heart dead in her, 
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word, 
And dropped it at her feet: 

Then hurried on his witless way, 

Scarce knowing she had heard. 


And when I came, she stood, alone, 
A woman, turned to stone: 
And, though no word at all she said, 
I knew that all was known. 


Because her heart was dead, 
She did not sigh nor moan. 
His mother wept: 

She could not weep. 

Her lover slept: 

She could not sleep. 

Three days, three nights, 
She did not stir: 

Three days, three nights, 
Were one to her, 

Who never closed her eyes 
From sunset to sunrise, 
From dawn to evenfall: 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Her tearless, staring eyes, 
That seeing naught, saw all. 


The fourth night when I came from work, 
I found her at my door. 

“And will you cut a stone for him?” 

She said and spoke no more: 

But followed me, as I went in, 

And sank upon a chair; 

And fixed her gray eyes on my face, 
With still, unseeing stare. 

And, as she waited patiently, 

I could not bear to feel 

Those still, gray eyes that followed me, 
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, 
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me 
And curdled the warm blood in me, 
Those eyes that cut me to the bone, 

And pierced my marrow like cold steel. 


And so I rose, and sought a stone; 
And cut it, smooth and square: 

And, as I worked, she sat and watched, 
Beside me, in her chair. 

Night after night, so still and white, 
And like a ghost she came; 

And sat beside me in her chair; 

And watched with eyes aflame. 


She eyed each stroke; 
And hardly stirred: 


37 


58 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


She never spoke 

A single word: 

And not a sound or murmur broke 
The quiet, save the mallet-stroke. 
With still eyes ever on my hands, 
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, 
My wincing, overwearied hands, 

She watched, with bloodless lips apart, 
And silent, indrawn breath: 

And every stroke my chisel cut, 
Death cut still deeper in her heart: 
The two of us were chiseling, 
Together, I and death. 


And when at length the job was done, 
And I had laid the mallet by, 

As if, at last, her peace were won, 
She breathed his name; and, with a sigh, 
Passed slowly through the open door: 
And never crossed my threshold more. 


Next night I laboured late, alone, 
To cut her name upon the stone. 
Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The 
Macmillan Company. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 59 


On a Subway Express 
Chester Fuirkins 


Chester Firkins was born at Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1882. 
He was educated at the University of Minnesota, and soon after 
took up journalism, being at his death in 1915, on the staff of the 
New York American. He wrote short stories as well as verse. 


Anyone who has ridden in a subway express will appreciate the 
imaginative touch that has made the sordid ride a worshipful com- 
munion with God. If the poem is treated seriously it can be made 
to appeal to the imagination with great power. 


I, wHo have lost the stars, the sod, 
For chilling pave and cheerless light, 
Have made my meeting-place with God 
A new and nether Night— 


Have found a fane where thunder fills 
Loud caverns, tremulous ;—and these 
Atone me for my reverend hills 
And moonlit silences. 


A figment in the crowded dark, 
Where men sit muted by the roar, 

I ride upon the whirring spark 
Beneath the city’s floor. 


In this dim firmament, the stars 
Whirl by in blazing files and tiers; 

Kin meteors graze our flying bars, 
Amid the spinning spheres. 


Speed! speed! until the quivering rails 
Flash silver where the headlight gleams, 


60 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


As when on lakes the moon impales 
The waves upon its beams. 


Life throbs about me, yet I stand 
Outgazing on majestic power; 
Death rides with me, on either hand, 

In my communion hour. 


You that ’neath country skies can pray, 
Scoff not at me—the city clod! 

My only respite of the day 
Is this wild ride—with God. 


Songs for My Mother 


Anna Hempstead Branch 


Anna Hempstead Branch was born at New London, Conn. She 
entered Smith College in 1897 and later attended the American 
Academy of Dramatic Art. She won the first of the Century prizes 
awarded to college graduates for the best poem with ‘“‘The Road 
’Twixt Heaven and Hell.’”? She has since written a number of 
poems and some prose and contributes to the leading magazines, 


The tone of the following two selections is tender and affec- 
tionate. The time is even and moderately slow, for the most part. 
There is an atmosphere of reminiscence about these poems. The 
force employed in rendering the lines should be gentle. The 
pitch is moderately low. These selections should not be delivered 
in a childish manner, although the manner of the adult is tinged 
with childish inflections, 


I 
Her Hands 


My mother’s hands are cool and fair, 
They can do anything. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Delicate mercies hide them there, 
Like flowers in the spring. 


When I was small and could not sleep, 
She used to come to me, 

And with my cheek upon her hand 
How sure my rest would be! 


For everything she ever touched 
Of beautiful and fine, 

Their memories, living in her hands, 
Would warm that sleep of mine. 


Her hands remember how they played 
One time in meadow streams,— 
And all the flickering song and shade 

Of water took my dreams. 


Swift through her haunted fingers pass 
Memories of garden things ;— 

I dipped my face in flowers and grass 
And sounds of hidden wings. 


One time she touched the cloud that kissed 
Brown pastures bleak and far ;— 

I leaned my cheek into a mist 
And thought I was a star. 


All this was very long ago 
And I am grown; but yet 

The hand that lured my slumber so 
I never can forget. 


61 


62 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


For still when drowsiness comes on 
It seems so soft and cool, 

Shaped happily beneath my cheek, 
Hollow and beautiful! 


3 
Her Words 


My mother has the prettiest tricks 
Of words and words and words. 

Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek 
As breasts of singing birds. 


She shapes her speech all silver fine 
Because she loves it so. 

And her own eyes begin to shine 
To hear her stories grow. 


And if she goes to make a call 
Or out to take a walk, 

We leave our work when she returns 
And run to hear her talk. 


We had not dreamed these things were so 
Of sorrow and of mirth. 

Her speech is as a thousand eyes 
Through which we see the earth. 


God wove a web of loveliness, 
Of clouds and stars and birds, 
But made not anything at all 
So beautiful as words. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 63 


They shine around our simple earth 
With golden shadowings, 

And every common thing they touch 
Is exquisite with wings. 


There’s nothing poor and nothing small 
But is made fair with them. 

They are the hands of living faith 
That touch the garment’s hem. 


They are as fair as bloom or air, 
They shine like any star, 
And I am rich who learned from her 
How beautiful they are. 
Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the owners of the 
copyright. 


Roofs 


Joyce Kilmer 


Joyce Kilmer was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey, in 
1886. He was educated at Columbia University. He was killed in 
action during the second Battle of the Marne, July 30, 1918. He 
is the author of several volumes of prose and verse. 


This eloquent plea for home should be read in medium rate 
and with sustained earnestness and sympathy. Remember that 
home is the key-word throughout. A very fine effect may be 
obtained by dwelling upon and bringing out with increasing 
emphasis the repetition of “homes” in the fifth line from the last. 


THE road is wide and the stars are out and the 
breath of the night is sweet, 

And this is the time when wanderlust should seize 
upon my feet. 


64. School Poetry for Oral Expression 


But I’m glad to turn from the open road and the 
starlight on my face, 

And to leave the splendor of out-of-doors for a 
human dwelling-place. 

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to 
roam 

All up and down the streets of the world and not 
have a home; , 

The tramp who slept in your barn last night and 
left at break of day 

Will wander only until he finds another place to 
stay. 

A gypsy man will sleep in his cart with canvas 
overhead, 

Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for 
bed. 

He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as 
the sun is high, 

But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away 
the sky. 

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him 
wrong, 

For he never goes a-traveling but he takes his home 
along. | 

And the only reason a road is good, as every 
wanderer knows, 

Is just because of the homes, the homes to which 
it goes. 

They say that life is a highway and its milestones 
are the years, 

And now and then there’s a toll-gate where you buy 
your way with tears. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 65 


It’s a rough road and a steep road and it stretches 
broad and far, 
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden 
Houses are. 
From Joyce Kilmer: Poems, Essays, and Letters, 


edited by R. C. Holliday. Copyright 1914, by George H. 
Doran Company, Publishers. 


Piano 
David Herbert Lawrence 


David Herbert Lawrence was born in 1885. He is an English 
poet, and is noted for his intense passion and emotion. Louis 
Untermeyer in his “‘Modern American and British Poetry,” says of 
him: “As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emo- 
tions; his passion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, 
which. sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But 
within his range he is as powerful as he is poignant.”’ Among his 
books of poetry are “Amores” and ‘Look! We Have Come 
Through,” published by B. W. Huebsch, Inc., New York, and “New 
Poems,”’ published by Martin Secher, London. 


This delicate poem should be rendered delicately. Begin softly 
and drift into affection and reverie. In the last stanza there is 
an emotional revulsion at the music of the present singer, followed 
by a complete capitulation to grief. 


SoFTLy, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; 

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see 

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the 
tingling strings, 

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who 
smiles as she sings. 


In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song 
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to 
belong 


66 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter 
outside 

And hymns in the cosy parlor, the tinkling piano 
our guide. 


So now it is vain for the singer to burst into 
clamor 

With the great black piano appassionato. The 
glamour 

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast 

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a 
child for the past. 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, B. W. Huebsch, Inc., New York. Copyrighted. 


Autumn 


Jean Starr Untermeyer 
(To My Mother) 


Jean Starr Untermeyer was born at Zanesville, Ohio, in 1886. 
She was educated at Putnam Seminary, Zanesville, and Columbia 
University, New York. She married Louis Untermeyer, the poet, 
in 1907. She excels in speaking of ordinary things in a poetic 
way. Her two published volumes are “Growing Pains’ and 
“Dreams out of Darkness,’ both published by B. W. Huebsch, 
Inc., New York. 


Rarely has the picture of the home life of the preceding genera- 
tion been painted so clearly as in this poem. Linger over each 
separate picture with affection, and if emotion bubbles up in the 
closing lines, do not crush it out, yet keep it under control. 


How memory cuts away the years, 
And how clean the picture comes 
Of autumn days, brisk and busy; 
Charged with keen sunshine, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 67 


And you, stirred with activity, 
The spirit of those energetic days! 


There was our back yard, 

So plain and stripped of green, 

With even the weeds carefully pulled away 

From the crooked red bricks that made the walk, 

And the earth on either side so black. 

Autumn and dead leaves burning in the sharp air, 

And winter comforts coming in like a pageant, 

I shall not forget them :— 

Great jars laden with the raw green of pickles, 

Standing in a solemn row across the back of the 
porch, 

Exhaling the pungent dill; 

And in the very center of the yard, 

You, tending the great catsup kettle of gleaming 
copper, 

Where fat, red tomatoes bobbed up and down 

Like jolly monks in a drunken dance. 

And there were bland banks of cabbage that came 
by the wagon-load, 

Soon to be cut into delicate ribbons 

‘Only to be crushed by the heavy, wooden stompers. 

Such feathery whiteness—to come to kraut! 

And after, there were grapes that hid their bright- 
ness 

Under a gray dust, 

Then gushed thrilling, purple blood over the fire; 

And enameled crab-apples that tricked with their 
fragrance 

But were bitter to taste. 


68 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And there were spicy plums and ill-shaped quinces, 

And long string beans floating in pans of clear 
water 

Like slim, green fishes. 

And there was fish itself, 

Salted, silver herring from the city... . 


And you moved among these mysteries, 
Absorbed and smiling and sure; 

Stirring, tasting, measuring, 

With the precision of a ritual. 

I like to think of you in your years of power— 
You, now so shaken and so powerless— 

High priestess of your home! 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, B. W. Huebsch, Inc., New York. Copyrighted. 


The Two Houses 


Thomas Hardy 


Thomas Hardy is an English writer, born in 1840. He first 
wrote novels, among them ‘‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” and did 
not take up poetry until he was nearly sixty. His collected poems 
were published by The Macmillan Company, New York, in 1919. 


This poem may be read as direct conversation, yet there must be 
something of dignity and solitude and deep philosophy in the 
manner of its rendering. 


In the heart of night, 
When farers were not near, 
The left house said to the house on the right, 
“T have marked your rise, O smart newcomer here!” 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 69 


Said the right, cold-eyed: 
“Newcomer here I am, 
Hence haler than you with your cracked old hide, 
Loose casements, wormy beams, and doors that 
jam. 


“Modern my wood, 
My hangings fair of hue; 
While my windows open as they should 
And water-pipes thread all my chambers through. 


“Your gear is gray, 
Your face wears furrows untold.” 
“Yours might,” mourned the other, “if you held, 
brother, 
The Presences from aforetime that I hold. 


“You have not known 
Men’s lives, deaths, toils, and teens; 
You are but a heap of stick and stone: 
A new house has no sense of the have-beens. 


“Void as a drum 
You stand: Iam packed with these; 
Though, strangely, living dwellers who come 
See not the phantoms all my substance sees! 


“Visible in the morning 
Stand they, when dawn crawls in; 
Visible at night; yet hint or warning 
Of these thin elbowers few of the inmates win. 


70 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


“Babes new brought forth 
Obsess my rooms; straight-stretched 
Lank corpses, ere outborne to earth; 
Yes, throng they as when first from the void up- 
fetched ! 


“Dancers and singers 
Throb in me now as once; 
Rich-noted throats and gossamered flingers 
Of heels; the learned in love-lore, and the dunce. 


“Note here within 
The bridegroom and the bride, 
Who smile and greet their friends and kin, 
And down my stairs depart for tracts untried. 


“Where such inbe, 
A dwelling’s character 
Takes theirs, and a vague semblancy 
To them in all its limbs and light and atmosphere. 


“Yet the blind folk, 
My tenants, who come and go 
In the flesh mid these, with souls unwoke, 
Of such sylph-like surrounders do not know.” 


“__Will the day come,” 
Said the new-built, awestruck, faint, 
“When I shall lodge shades dim and dumb, 
And with such spectral guests become acquaint ?” 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 71 


“That will it, boy; 
Such shades will people thee, 
Fach in his misery, irk, or joy, 
And print on thee their presences as on me!” 
Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The 
Macmillan Company. 


The Chaperon 


Henry Cuyler Bunner 


Henry Cuyler Bunner, for several years the editor of Punch, 
was born at Oswego, New York, in 1855, and died at Nutley, New 
Jersey, in 1896. His poems are noted for their grace and lightness 
of touch. 


Youth and coquetry predominate in this poem, but there is an 
undertone of tragedy which should not be neglected. 


I TAKE my chaperon to the play— 
She thinks she is taking me. 

And the gilded youth who owns the box, 
A proud young man is he; 

But how would his young heart be hurt 
If he could only know 
That not for his sweet sake I go 
Nor yet to see the trifling show; 

But to see my chaperon flirt! 


Her eyes beneath her snowy hair, 
They sparkle young as mine; 

There’s scarce a wrinkle in her hand 
So delicate and fine. 


72 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And when my chaperon is seen, 
They come from everywhere— 
The dear old boys with silvery hair, 
With old-time grace and old-time air, 
To greet their old-time queen. 


They bow as my young Midas here 
Will never know how to bow 

(The dancing masters do not teach 
That gracious reverence now) ; 

With voices quavering just a bit, 
They play their old parts through, 
They talk of folk who used to woo, 
Of hearts that broke in ’fifty-two— 

Now none the worse for it. 


And as those aged crickets chirp, 
I watch my chaperon’s face, 
And see the dear old features take 
A new and tender grace; 
And in her happy eyes I see 
Her youth awakening bright, 
With all its hope, desire, delight— 
Ah, me! I wish that I were quite 
As young—as young as she! 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression a 


America the Beautiful 


Katharine Lee Bates 


Katharine Lee Bates was born in Falmouth, Mass., in 18509. 
She is a graduate of the class of 1880 at Wellesley College. Since 
1888 she has been professor of English literature in the same 
institution. She has traveled extensively in Europe and the Orient. 
Among her numerous publications may be mentioned, ‘‘College 
Beautiful and Other Poems,” “English Religious Drama,’’ and 
“Story of Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims, Retold for Children.” 


Let affection and oratorical fervor characterize the reading of 
this exquisite poem. It is perhaps best read from the book, after 
Some explanatory introduction to the effect that the author is 
apostrophizing America. 


O BEAUTIFUL for spacious skies, 
For amber waves of grain, 
For purple mountain majesties 
Above the fruited plain! 
America! America! 
God shed His grace on thee 
And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea! 


O beautiful for pilgrim feet, 
Whose stern, impassioned stress 
A thoroughfare for freedom beat 
Across the wilderness ! 
America! America! 
God mend thine every flaw, 
Confirm thy soul in self-control, 
Thy liberty in law! 


O beautiful for heroes proved 
In liberating strife, 


74 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Who more than self their country loved, 
And mercy more than life! 
America! America! 
May God thy gold refine 
Till all success be nobleness 
And every gain divine! 


O beautiful for patriot dream 
That sees beyond the years 

Thine alabaster cities gleam 
Undimmed by human tears! 

America! America! 

God shed His grace on thee 

And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


The Caravels of Columbus 


Elias Lieberman 


Elias Lieberman was born in Petrograd, Russia, in 1883. He 
was graduated from the College of the City of New York, and is 
at present Head of the English Department in the Bushwick High 
School, New York City. He has written plays, short stories, and 
essays, in addition to his poetry. 


In its thought this poem is a happy combination of Joaquin 
Miller’s “Sail On’? and Longfellow’s ‘‘Ship of State.”” The selec- 
tion should be delivered with directness and strength. 


He kept them pointed straight ahead— 

Due west they sailed toward shores unknown. 
The fearless leader standing deep 

In thought, beside the helm—alone. 
He heard about him snarls of rage, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 75 


He scanned the frowns of those who plot 
Revolt, and day by day he saw 
But sea and sky, yet faltered not! 


And, day by day, he swept in vain 

Along the dim horizon line. 
From castellated sterns his men 

Gazed down and murmured—angry kine, 
Alert to start a wild stampede 

For home and fodder. This he bore 
With iron will until the day 

When hope’s fruition brought the shore. 


His caravels in modern times 
Can never make the ports that be; 
In fancy’s fleet they drift along 
Unchartered wastes from sea to sea, 
But he who kept them westward bound 
So long ago is still alive; 
His spirit stirs the trumpet call 
Wherever men of courage strive. 


Our ship of state is sailing, too, 
On water wild and perilous ; 

The lightning strikes the troubled mere 
And shakes the God-like faith of us, 

Yet we, like him, must steer the ship 
Until it leaves the heaving sea 

And finds a haven safe and sound 
Within the port of Loyalty. 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


70 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Pioneers 


Badger Clark 


Badger Clark was born at Albia, Iowa, in 1883. He now lives 
in The Black Hills of South Dakota. Louis Untermeyer in his 
“American and British Poetry” says of him: “Clark is one of the 
few men who have lived to see their work become part of folk-lore, 
many of his songs having been adapted and paraphrased by the 
cowboys who have made them their own. There is wind in his 
songs; the smell of camp-smoke; and the colors of prairie sunsets 
tise from them.’”’ His most famous works are “Sun and Saddle 
Leather’? and ‘‘Grass-Grown Trails.” 


A wide sweep of the imagination and a keen visualization of the 
westward march of American civilization are required for an 
adequate vocal interpretation of this fine poem. 


A BROKEN wagon wheel that rots away beside the 
river, 
A sunken grave that dimples on the bluff above 
the trail; 
The larks call, the wind sweeps, the prairie grasses 
quiver 
And sing a wistful roving song of hoof and wheel 
and sail. 
Pioneers, pioneers, you trailed it on to glory, 
Across the circling deserts to the mountains blue 
and dim. : 
New England was a night camp; Old England was 
a story, 
The new home, the true home, lay out beyond the 
rim. 


You fretted at the old hearth, the kettle and the 
cricket, 
The fathers’ little acres, the wood lot and the 
pond. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression iy 


Ay, better storm and famine and the arrow from the 


thicket, 
Along the trail to wider lands that glimmered out 

beyond. 
Pioneers, pioneers, the quicksands where you wal- 

lowed, 


The rocky hills and thirsty plains—they hardly 
won your heed. 
You snatched the thorny chance, broke the trail that 
others followed 
For sheer joy, for dear joy of marching in the 
lead. 


Your wagon track is laid with steel; your tired dust 
is sleeping. 
Your spirit stalks the valleys where a restive na- 
tion teems. 
Your soul has never left them in their sowing, in 
their reaping. 
The children of the outward trail, their eyes are 
full of dreams. 
Pioneers, pioneers, your children will not reckon 
The dangers on the dusky ways no man has ever 
gone. 
They look beyond the sunset where the better coun- 
tries beckon, 
With old faith, with bold faith to find a wider 
dawn. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and Charles 
Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1919, by Charles Scribner’s 
Sons. 


78 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Lincoln, the Man of the People 
Edwin Markham 


For biographical note concerning Edwin Markham, see “The Man 
With the Hoe,” page 103. 


This selection is more oratorical than lyric. It should be 
delivered directly to the audience with sincerity and power. A 
superb effect can be secured by a proper rendering of the words 
“lonesome place” in the last line. 


Wuen the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, 

She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down 
To make a man to meet the mortal need. 

She took the tried clay of the common road— 
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, 
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy ; 
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; 
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. 
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light 
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; 

And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, 
Moving—all hushed—behind the mortal veil. 
Here was a man to hold against the world, 

A man to match the mountains and the sea. 


The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; 
The smack and tang of elemental things: 

The rectitude and patience of the cliff; 

The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; 

The friendly welcome of the wayside well; 

The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 79 


The pity of the snow that hides all scars; 

The secrecy of streams that make their way 
Under the mountain to the rifted rock; 

The tolerance and equity of light 

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower 

As to the great oak flaring to the wind— 

To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn 
That shoulders out the sky. 

Sprung from the West, 

He drank the valorous youth of a new world. 
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, 
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. 

His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts 
Were roots that firmly gripped the granite truth. 


Up from log cabin to the Capitol ; 

One fire was on his spirit, one resolve— 

To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, 
Clearing a free way for the feet of God. 

And evermore he burned to do his deed 

With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: 

He built the rail-pile as he built the State, 
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, 
The conscience of him testing every stroke, 

To make his deed the measure of a man, 


So came the Captain with the mighty heart; 
And when the judgment thunders split the house, 
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, 
‘He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again 

The rafters for the Home. He held his place— 
[Held the long purpose like a growing tree— 


80 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, 
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, 
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Theodore Roosevelt 


Leon Huhner 


Leon Huhner is a busy attorney in New York City, yet his 
patriotic ardor compels him to take time now and then to voice in 
verse his love for his country and its great men, 


In the following poem an eloquent and deserved tribute is paid 
to an outstanding American. Slow rate and large volume are 
required to voice effectively this eulogy. 


GIGANTIC figure of a mighty age! 

How shall I chant the tribute of thy praise, 

As statesman, soldier, scientist, or sage? 

Thou wert so great in many different ways! 

And yet in all there was a single aim— 

To fight for truth with sword and tongue and pen! 
In wilderness, as in the halls of fame, 

Thy courage made thee master over men. 

Like some great magnet, that from distant poles 
Attracts the particles and holds them fast, 

So thou didst draw all men, and fill their souls 
With thy ideals,—naught caring for their past, 
Their race or creed. There was one only test: 
To love our country and to serve it best! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 81 


The West 


Douglas Malloch 


Douglas Malloch was born in Muskegon, Mich, May 5, 1877. 
He began working in Detroit as newspaper reporter, and after 
some years was made editor. He has written some prose and a 
great deal of verse relating to the forest and lumber camps, and 
contributes to the leading magazines. 


A world-wide vision is necessary for a correct interpretation of 
this poem. Note that the for in the second line means because, 
and is not the same in meaning as the for in the first line. Care 
will be needed in determining the antecedent of they in first line 
of the second stanza. 


MEN look to the East for the dawning aihes: for 
the light of a rising sun, 

But they look to the West, to the crimson West, for 
the things that are done, are done. 

The eastward sun is a new-made hope from the dark 
of the night distilled; 

But the westward sun is a sunset sun, is the sun of 
a hope fulfilled! 


So out of the East they have always come, the 
cradle that saw the birth 

Of all the heart-warm hopes of man and all of the 
hopes of earth— 

For out of the East arose a Christ and out of the 
East has gleamed 

The dearest dream and the clearest dream that ever 
a prophet dreamed. 


And into the waiting West they go with the dream- 
child of the East, 


82 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And find the hopes that they hoped of old are a 
hundred-fold increased. 

For here in the East we dream our dreams of the 
things we hope to do, 

And here in the West, the crimson West, the dreams 
of the East come true! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Out Where the West Begins 


Arthur Chapman 


Arthur Chapman is a newspaper man residing in New York City. 
He was born in Rockford, Illinois, in 1873. He has published 
several volumes of verse, becoming famous through the poem 
“Out Where the West Begins,” originally published in a Denver 
newspaper. 


This praise of the West of course seems extravagant to those 
not living in the West. To read it with the true spirit of the 
Westerner, however, it should be given the buoyant fervor of 
sincerity. 


Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger, 

Out where the smile dwells a little longer, 
That’s where the West begins ; 

Out where the sun is a little brighter, _ 

Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, 

Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, 
That’s where the West begins. 


Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, 
Out where friendship’s a little truer, 
That’s where the West begins; 
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, 
Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 83 


Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, 
That’s where the West begins. 


Out where the world is in the making, 
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching, 
That’s where the West begins; 
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing, 
Where there’s more of giving and less of buying, 
And a man makes friends without half trying— 
That’s where the West begins. 
Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, Houghton Mifflin and Company, from A Little Book 


of Western Verse. Copyrighted by Houghton Mifflin 
Company. 


The Vale of Shadows 


Clinton Scollard 


Clinton Scollard, author, and professor of English literature in 
Hamilton College, was born in Clinton, New York, in 1860. He 
has been a prolific writer of poetry since 1884, having published 
upward of thirty volumes. In 1915 he published ‘‘The Vale of 
Shadows and Other Poems.” 


Music in a minor key is found in the following selection. Make 
much of the rhythm, and tinge the tone with sadness, resignation, 
and yet with a certain confidence that the evil War Lords must 
atone for their misdeeds. The pictures can be well developed, but 
they are always seen through the mist of sadness. 


THERE is a vale in the Flemish land, 
A vale once fair to see, 
Where under the sweep of the sky’s wide arch, 
Though winter freeze or summer parch, 
The stately poplars march and march, 
Remembering Lombardy. 


84 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Here are men of the Saxon eyes, 
Men of the Saxon heart, 

Men of the fens and men of the Peak, 

Men of the Kentish meadows sleek, 

Men of the Cornwall cove and creek, 
Men of the Dove and Dart. 


Here are men of the kilted clans 

From the heathery slopes that lie 
Where the mists hang gray and the mists hang white, 
And the deep lochs brood ’neath the craggy height, 
And the curlews scream in the moonless night 

Over the hills of the Skye. 


Here are men of the Celtic breed, 

Lads of the smile and tear, 
From where the loops of the Shannon flow, 
And the crosses gleam in the even-glow, 
And the halls of Tara now are low, 

And Donegal cliffs are sheer. 


And never a word does one man speak, 
Each in his narrow bed, 

For this is the Vale of Long Release, 

This is the Vale of the Lasting Peace, 

Where wars, and the rumors of wars, shall cease, 
The valley of the dead. 


No more are they than the scattered scud, 
No more than broken reeds, 
No more than shards or shattered glass, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Than dust blown down the winds that pass, 
Than trampled wafts of pampas-grass 
When the wild herd stampedes. 


In the dusk of death they laid them down 
With naught of murmuring, 
And laughter rings through the House of Mirth 
To hear the vaunt of the high of birth, 
For what are all the kings of earth 
Before the one great King! 


And what shall these proud war-lords say 
At foot of His mighty throne? 

For there shall dawn a reckoning day, 

Or soon or late, come as it may, 

When those who gave the sign to slay 
Shall meet His face alone. 


What, think ye, will their penance be 
Who have wrought this monstrous crime? 
What shall whiten their blood-red hands 
Of the stains of riven and ravished lands? 
How shall they answer God’s stern commands 
At the last assize of Time? 


For though we worship no vengeance-god 
Of madness and of ire, 
No Presence grim, with a heart of stone, 
Shall they not somehow yet atone? 
Shall they not reap as they have sown 
Of fury and of fire? 


85 


86 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


There is a vale in the Flemish land 
Where the lengthening shadows spread 
When day, with crimson sandals shod, 
Goes home athwart the mounds of sod 
That cry in silence up to God 
From the valley of the dead! 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


He Went for a Soldier 


Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young 


Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young was born in San Francisco, and 
now lives in Los Gatos,. California, .She has written numerous 
poems for the better magazines. Her volume, “The Night Court,” 
is published by The Century Company. 


Seldom has the tragedy of youth and war been painted so 
effectively as in this poem. Notice the transition from the gay to 
the horrible, and then to the last silence of death. Be sure to 
make the thought of the last stanza clear—the voice should be 
strong, but should have a good deal of the explanatory inflection. 
Her marched away with a blithe young score of him 

With the first volunteers, 

Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him, 

Blushing under the cheers. 

They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there, 
Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there, 
Pelting him with pinks and with roses— 
Billy, the Soldier Boy! 


Not very clear in the kind young heart of him 
What the fuss was about, 
But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him— 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 87 


The music drowned his doubt. 
It’s a fine, brave sight they were a-coming there 
To the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there, 
While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily— 
Billy, the Soldier Boy! 


Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it— 
Volley and curse and groan: 

Then he has done with the knightly joke of it— 
It’s rending flesh and bone. 

There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking there 

And a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there; 
He fights like a rat in a corner— 
Billy, the Soldier Boy! 


There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him, 
Left on the field for dead: 
The ground all round is smeared with the gore of 
him— 
Even the leaves are red. 
The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there, 
Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there; 
A sickening sun grins down on him— 
Billy, the Soldier Boy! 


Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of him 
What the fuss was about, 
See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him— 
While life is oozing out: 
There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there; 
There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling 
there, 


88 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Eager for the foul feast spread for them— 
Billy, the Soldier Boy! 


How much longer, O Lord, shall we bear it all? 
How many more red years? 

Story it and glory it and share it all, 
In seas of blood and tears? 

They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long; 

They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long— 
We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone, 
Borne with the hell called War! 


Reprinted by permission of the author from The Night 
Court, published by The Century Company, New York. 


The Laughers 


Louis Untermeyer 


Louis Untermeyer, author, manufacturing jeweller, lecturer, and 
associate editor of “The Masses,’”? was born in New York City, 
in 1885. He has published several volumes of poems since 1910 
and has contributed critical reviews to the Chicago Evening Post, 
the New York Times, and the Yale Review. 


The poem that follows has three distinct movements. The first 
is an out-and-out description of the joy of spring. The second is 
the utter gloom that the news from the front strikes to the heart 
of the poet. The third is a masterpiece of irony, almost fiendish 
in its intensity. In the hands of a skillful reader, this selection 
can be made most effective. 

SPRING! 

And her hidden bugles up the street. 
Spring—and the sweet 

Laughter of winds at the crossing ; 


Laughter of birds and a fountain tossing 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 89 


Its hair in abandoned ecstasies. 

Laughter of trees. 

Laughter of shop-girls that giggle and blush; 
Laugh of the tug-boat’s impertinent fife. 
Laughter followed by a trembling hush— 
Laughter of love, scarce whispered aloud. 
Then, stilled by no sacredness or strife, 
Laughter that leaps from the crowd; 
Seizing the world in a rush. 

Pauciter on lite... + 


Earth takes deep breaths like a man who had feared 
he might smother, 

Filling his lungs before bursting into a shout... 

Windows are opened—curtains flying out; 

Over the wash-lines women call to each other. 

And, under the calling, there surges, too clearly to 
doubt, 

Spring, with the noises 

Of shrill, little voices ; 

Joining in “Tag” and the furious chase 

Of “T-spy,” “Red Rover” and “Prisoner’s Base’; 

Of the roller-skates’ whir at the sidewalk’s slope, 

Of boys playing marbles and girls skipping rope. 

And there, down the avenue, behold, 

The first true herald of the Spring— 

The hand-organ gasping and wheezily murmuring 

Its tunes ten-years old... 

And the music, trivial and tawdry, has freshness 
and magical swing. 

And over and under it, 


go School Poetry for Oral Expression 


During and after— 
The laughter 
OTe pring | arte 


And lifted still 

With the common thrill, 

With the throbbing air, the tingling vapor, 

That rose like strong and mingled wines, 

I turned to my paper, 

And read these lines: 

“Now that the Spring is here, 

The war enters its bloodiest phase... 

The men are impatient. ... 

Bad roads, storms and the rigors of the winter 

Have held back the contending armies. .. . 

But the recruits have arrived, 

And are waiting only the first days of warm 
weather. ... 

There will be terrible fighting along the whole line— 

Now that Spring has come.” 


I put the paper down . 

Something struck out the sun—something unseen; 
Something arose like a dark wave to drown 

The golden streets with a sickly green. 

Something polluted the blossoming day 

With the touch of decay. 

The music thinned and died; 

People seemed hollow-eyed. 

Even the faces of children, where gaiety lingers, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression QI 


Sagged and drooped like banners about to be 
furled— 
And Silence laid its bony fingers 
On the lips of the world... . 
A grisly quiet with the power to choke; 
A quiet that only one thing broke ; 
One thing alone rose up thereafter ... 
Laughter ! 
Laughter of streams running red. 
Laughter of evil things in the night; 
Vultures carousing over the dead; 
Laughter of ghouls. 
Chuckling of idiots, cursed with sight. 
Laughter of dark and horrible pools. 
Scream of the bullets’ rattling mirth, 
Sweeping the earth. 
Laugh of the cannon’s poisonous breath... 
And over the shouts and the wreckage and 
crumbling 
The raucous and rumbling 
Laughter of death. 
Death that arises to sing,— 
Hailing the Spring! 
Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry Holt 
and Company. 


92 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


I Have a Rendezvous with Death 


Alan Seeger 


Alan Seeger was born in New York, June 22, 1888. During his 
boyhood and youth he traveled extensively in the United States 
and Mexico. He was in Europe when the war broke out, and 
like many another young American, promptly enlisted. He was 
killed in battle July 4, 1917, during the advance on Belloy-en- 
Sauterre. His collected poems have been published by Charles 
Scribner’s Sons. 


The following poem is justly ranked as one of the great poems 
inspired by the war. The peculiar balance of courage and love of 
life makes a strong appeal. The poem should be read in a serious 
tone but should not be made too somber. : 


I HAVE a rendezvous with Death 

At some disputed barricade, 

When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
And apple blossoms fill the air— 

I have a rendezvous with Death 

When spring brings back blue days and fair. 


It may be he shall take my hand 

And lead me into his dark land 

And close my eyes and quench my breath— 
It may be I shall pass him still. 

I have a rendezvous with Death 

On some scarred slope of battled hill, 
When Spring comes round again this year 
And the first meadow flowers appear. 


God knows ’twere better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down, 

When love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 93 


Where hushed awakenings are dear— 
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death 

At midnight in some flaming town, 
When Spring trips north again this year. 
And I to my pledged word am true, 

I shall not fail my rendezvous. 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, Charles Scribner’s Sons. 


Fleurette 


Robert William Service, 


Robert William Service was born in Preston, England, on Jan. 
16, 1874. After attending a public school in Glasgow, he emigrated 
to Canada, where he went into the banking business. He spent 
eight years traveling in the Yukon and in the Subarctic. He is 
now engaged exclusively in literature, and has published a num- 
ber of poems and ballads, dealing chiefly with life in the Yukon. 


This poem is a fine example of conversational verse. It has 
deep emotion, however, and should be rendered with exquisite feel- 
ing. If there can be a little choking up of the throat on “Darn 
it, I couldn’t speak,” the effect will strike home. Be careful, how- 
ever, to do this sincerely, and you may expect tears in your own 
eyes-and the eyes of the audience. Some may prefer to read 
this selection from the book, 


THE Wounded Canadian Speaks: 
My leg? It’s off at the knee. 

Do I miss it? Well, some. You see 
I’ve had it since I was born; 

And lately a devilish corn. 

(I rather chuckle with glee 

To think how I’ve fooled that corn). 


But [ll hobble around all right. 
It isn’t that, it’s my face. 


04 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Oh, I know I’m a hideous sight, 
Hardly a thing in place. 

Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. 
Nurse won’t give me a glass, 
But I see the folks as they pass 
Shudder and turn away; 

Turn away in distress .. . 
Mirror enough, I guess. 

I’m gay? You bet I am gay, 
But I wasn’t a while ago. 

If you’d seen me even to-day, 
The darndedest picture of woe, 
With this Caliban mug of mine, 
So ravaged and raw and red, 
Turned to the wall—in fine 
Wishing that I was dead... 
What has happened since then, 
Since I lay with my face to the wall, 
The most despairing of men? 
Listen! I'll tell you all. 


2 2 
; 
i 


That poilu across the way, 

With the shrapnel wound on his head, 
Has a sister; she came to-day 

To sit awhile by his bed. 

All morning I heard him fret: 

“Oh, when will she come, Fleurette ?” 


a 


Then sudden, a joyous cry; 
The tripping of little feet; 
The softest, tenderest sigh; 
A voice so fresh and sweet; 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Clear as a silver bell, 

Fresh as the morning dews: 

“C'est toi, c’est toi, Marcel! 

Mon frére, comme je suis heureuse!” 


So over the blanket’s rim 

I raised my terrible face, 

And I saw—how I envied him! 
A girl of such delicate grace; 
Sixteen, all laughter and love; 
As gay as a linnet, and yet 

As tenderly sweet as a dove; 
Half woman, half child, Fleurette. 
Then I turned to the wall again. 
(I was awfully blue, you see) 
And I thought with a bitter pain: 
“Such visions are not for me.” 

So there like a log I lay, 

All hidden, I thought, from view, 
When sudden I heard her say: 
“Ah! Who is that malheureux?” 
Then briefly I heard him tell 
(However he came to know) 
How I’d smothered a bomb that fell 
Into the trench, and so 

None of my men were hit, 
Though it busted me up a bit. 


Well, I didn’t quiver an eye, 

And he chattered and there she sat; 
And I fancied I heard her sigh— 
But I wouldn’t just swear to that. 


95 


96 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And maybe she wasn’t so bright, 
Though she talked in a merry strain, 
And I closed my eyes ever so tight, 
Yet I saw her ever so plain; 

Her dear little tilted nose, 

Her delicate, dimpled chin, 

Her mouth like a budding rose, 
And the glistening pearls within; 
Her eyes like the violet: 

Such a rare little queen—Fleurette! 


And at last when she rose to go,— 

The light was a little dim— 

I ventured to peep, and so 

I saw her, graceful and slim, 

And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh 
How I envied and envied him! 


So when she was gone I said 

In rather a dreary voice 

To him of the opposite bed: 

“Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! 
But me, I’m a thing of dread. 

For me nevermore the bliss, 

The thrill of a woman’s kiss.” 


Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, 
And a great light shone in her eyes. 
And me! I could only stare, 

I was taken so by surprise, 

When gently she bent her head: 
“May I kiss you, sergeant?” she said. 


mian, 


pictures clear. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Then she kissed my burning lips, 
With her mouth like a scented flower, 
And I thrilled to the finger-tips, 

And I hadn’t even the power 

To say: “God bless you, dear!” 

And I felt such a precious tear 

Fall on my withered cheek, 

And darn it! I couldn’t speak. 


And so she went sadly away, 

And I know that my eyes were wet. 
Ah, not to my dying day 

Will I forget, forget! 

Can you wonder now I am gay? 
God bless her, that little Fleurette! 


The Pyres 


Hermann Hagedorn 


Pyres in the night, in the night! 
And the roaring yellow and red. 


97 


From Rhymes of a Red Cross Man by Robert W. 
Service, author of The Spell of the Yukon and Other 
Verses, Ballads of a Cheechako, and Ballads of a Bohe= 
Copyright by Barse and Hopkins, New York. 


Hermann Hagedorn, Jr., was born in New York City in 1882. 
He has been associated closely with the literary life of Harvard 
University since his graduation there in 1907, his commencement 
poem, “A Troop of the Guard,” bringing him into prominent notice. 
He is the author of several plays. 


On account of the many flights of the imagination in this poem, 
it will be best to read it from the book or manuscript. 
Develop the music of the selection, and add the 


mystery and depth of the infinite in the line, “Stars, make room!” 


Keep the 


98 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


“Trooper, trooper, why so white?” 
“We are out to gather our dead. 
We have brought dry boughs from the bloody wood 
And the torn hill-side; 
We have felled great trunks, wet with blood 
Of brothers that died; 
We have piled them high for a flaming bed, 
Hemlock and ash and pine for a bed, 
A throne in the night, a throne for a bed; 
And we go to gather our dead. 


“There where the oaks loom, dark and high, 
Over the sombre hill, 
Body on body, cold and still, 
Under the stars they lie. 
There where the silver river runs, 
Careless and calm as fate, 
Mowed, mowed by the terrible guns, 
The stricken brothers wait. 
There by the smoldering house, and there 
Where the red smoke hangs on the heavy air, 
Under the ruins, under the hedge, 
Cheek by cheek at the forest-edge ; 
Back to breast, three men deep, 
Hearing not bugle or drum, 
In the desperate trench they died to keep, 
Under the starry dome they sleep, 
Murmuring, ‘Brothers, come!’ 


“This way! I heard a call 
Like a stag’s when he dies. 
Under the willows I saw him fall. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 99 


Under the willows he lies. 

Give me your hand. Raise him up. 
Lift his head. Strike a light. 

This morning we shared a crust and a cup. 

He wants no supper to-night. 

Take his feet. Here the shells 
Broke all day long, 

Moaning and shrieking hell’s 
Bacchanalian song! 

Last night he helped me bear 
Men to hell’s féting. 

To-morrow, maybe, somewhere, 
We, too, shall lie waiting.” 


Pyres in the night, in the night! 
Weary and sick and dumb, 

Under the flickering, faint starlight 
The drooping gleaners come. 

Out of the darkness, dim 
Shadowy shadow-bearers, 

Dragging into the bale-fire’s rim 
Pallid death-farers. 


Pyres in the night, in the night! 
In the plain, on the hill. 

No volleys for their last rite. 
We need our powder—to kill. 

High on their golden bed, 

Pile up the dead! 


Pyres in the night, in the night! 
Torches, piercing the gloom! 


100 =©3—» School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Look! How the sparks take flight! 
Stars, stars, make room! 


Smoke, that was bone and blood! 
Hark! The deep roar! 

It is the souls telling God 
The glory of WAR! 


Reprinted by permission of the author from The 
Outlook. 


The Road to Babylon 


Margaret Adelaide Wilson 


Margaret Adelaide Wilson was born at Portland, Oregon, and 
educated at Bryn Mawr. She has been writing verse and stories 
for magazines since 1906. 


Strive to make effective the delicate affection voiced in this 
poem. It is as if some mother thinks of her grown-up son still 
as a little child. 


“How far is it to Babylon? 
—Threescore miles and ten. 

Can I get there by candle-light? 

Yes, and back again.” | 
And while the nurse hummed the old, old, rhyme, 
Tucking him in at evening time, 

He dreamed how when he grew a man 
And traveled free, as big men can, 
He'd slip out through the garden gate 
To roads where high adventures wait, 
And find the way to Babylon, 

Babylon, far Babylon, 

All silver-towered in the sun! 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 101 


He’s traveled free, a man with men; 

(Bitter the scores of miles and ten!) 

And now face down by Babylon’s wall 

He sleeps, nor any more at all 

By morning, noon, or candle-light 

Or in the wistful summer night 

To his own garden gate he'll come. 

—Young feet that fretted so to roam 

Have missed the road returning home. 
Reprinted by permission of the author and Charles 


Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1920, by Charles Scribner’s 
Sons. 


He Whom a Dream Hath Possessed 


S haemas O’Sheel 


Shaemas O’Sheel was born in New York, in 1886. He was 
educated at Columbia University. He has published “The Blossom- 
ing Bough” and “The Light Feet of Goats.” 


This is a direct, stalwart proclamation. It should be delivered 
with a certain exaltation. It is triumphant, and should be uttered 
with a sense of infinite confidence, superior to all times, and all 
things, The tone should be full and strong. 


He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more 
of doubting, 

For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouth- 
ing of words he scorns; 

Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a 
knightly shouting, 

And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth 
a million morns. 


He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more 
of roaming ; 


102 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest 
flight he knows, 

But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever 
homing, 

And going he comes, and coming he heareth a call 
and goes. 


He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more 
of sorrow, 

At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading 
of sun he smiles, 

For a dream remembers no past and scorns the 
desire of a morrow, 

And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ulti- 
mate isles. 


He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impal- 
pable marches, 

From the dust of the day’s long road he leaps to a 
laughing star, 

And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from 
eternal arches, 

And rides God’s battlefield in a flashing and golden 
car. 


Reprinted by permission of Mitchell Kennerley, New 
York, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 103 


The Man with The Hoe 


(Written after seeing Miliet’s Famous Painting) 


Eduin Markham 


Edwin Markham was born at Oregon City, Oregon, April 23, 
1852. He early moved to California, where, as a boy, he herded 
sheep and cattle, later becoming an educator. He is the author of 
several volumes of poetry and has been a contributor to magazines 
upon social and economic problems. The following poem attracted 
wide attention when it was first published in 1899, and has been 
called ‘‘the battle-cry of the next thousand years.” 


The poem should be read from the page, not recited, and should 
probably be prefaced by a short narrative, giving the circumstances 
of its composition. The poet may be imagined as looking at the 
painting and talking. Earnestness and a deep realization of the 
meaning of the poem should be sought for. Read the poem slowly 
and bring out the full meaning of every phrase with keen, strong 
force. 


Bowen by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 

The emptiness of ages in his face, 

And on his back the burden of the world. 

Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 

Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power: 
To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? 
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 


104 School Poeiry for Oral Expression 


There is no shape more terrible than this— 
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind 
greed— 


More filled with signs and portents for the soul— 
More fraught with menace to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 

Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 

What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 

The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop; 

Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned and disinherited, 

Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 

A protest that is also prophecy. 


O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched ? 
How will you ever straighten up this shape; 
Touch it again with immortality ; | 

Give back the upward looking and the light; 
Rebuild in it the music and the dream; 

Make right the immemorial infamies, 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 


O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world ? 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 105 


How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—~— 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is— 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
After the silence of the centuries? 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Silence va 


Edgar Lee Masters 


Edgar Lee Masters was born at Garnet, Kansas, Aug. 23, 1869. 
He attended the high school at Lewistown, Illinois, later study- 
ing law. He is a lawyer and the author of many books of poetry 
and prose. His most famous production is probably ‘“‘The Spoon 
River Anthology.” 


The poem here reproduced is reflective to the highest degree. 
It should be read slowly, each thought being fully appreciated. 
The pitch is low and the tone somewhat “‘covered.” 


I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea, 
And the silence of the city when it pauses, 

And the silence of a man and a maid, 

And the silence of the sick 

When their eyes roam about the room. 

And I ask: For the depths, 

Of what use is language? 

A beast of the field moans a few times 

When death takes its young. 

And we are voiceless in the presence of realities— 
We cannot speak. 


A curious boy asks an old soldier 
Sitting in front of the grocery store, 
“How did you lose your leg?” 

And the old soldier is struck with silence, 


106 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Or his mind flies away 

Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. 

It comes back jocosely 

And he says, “A bear bit it off.” 

And the boy wonders, while the old soldier 

Dumbly, feebly lives over 

The flash of the guns, the thunder of the cannon, 

The shrieks of the slain, 

And himself lying upon the ground, 

And the hospital surgeons, the knives, 

And the long days in bed. 

But if he could describe it all 

He would be an artist. 

But if he were an artist there would be deeper 
wounds 


Which he could not describe. 


There is the silence of a great hatred, 

And the silence of a great love, 

And the silence of an embittered friendship. 
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, 
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, 
Comes with visions not to be uttered, 

Into a realm of higher life. 

There is the silence of defeat. 

There is the silence of those unjustly punished ; 
And the silence of the dying whose hand 
Suddenly grips yours. 

There is the silence between father and son, 
When the father cannot explain his life, 
Even though he be misunderstood for it. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 107 


There is the silence that comes between husband 
and wife. 

There is the silence of those who have failed; 

And the vast silence that covers 

Broken nations and vanauished leaders. 

There is the silence of Lincoln, 

Thinking of the poverty of his youth. 

And the silence of Napoleon 

After Waterloo. 

And the silence of Jeanne d’Arc 

Saying amid the flames,. “Blessed Jesus” — 

Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope. 

And there is the silence of age, 

Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it 

In words intelligible to those who have not lived 

The great range of life. 


And there is the silence of the dead. 
If we who are in life cannot speak 
Of profound experiences, 
Why do you marvel that the dead 
Do not tell you of death? 
Their silence shall be interpreted 
As we approach them. 
Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 


ment with, The Macmillan Company. Copyrighted by The 
Macmillan Company. 


108 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The Mystic 


Cale Young Rice 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Chant of 
the Colorado,” page 11. 


Here is a poem full of music and rhythm. Make the most of 
the music that you can, not losing sight of the thought. Deliver 
the ‘‘Just beyond lies God’ refrain slowly each time, with an 
impressive pause, not too long, before it. 


THERE is a quest that calls me, 
In nights when I am lone, 
The need to ride where the ways divide 
The Known from the Unknown. 
I mount what thought is near me 
And soon I reach the place, 
The tenuous rim where the Seen grows dim 
And the Sightless hides its face. 


I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the sea, 

I have ridden the moon and stars. 

I have set my foot in the stirrup seat 
Of a comet coursing Mars. 

And everywhere 

Thro’ the earth and air 

My thought speeds, lightning-shod, 

It comes to a place where checking pace 
It cries, “Beyond lies God!” 


It calls me out of the darkness, 
It calls me out of sleep, 
“Ride! ride! for you must, to the end of Dust!” 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 109 


It bids—and on I sweep 

To the wide outposts of Being, 
Where there is Gulf alone— 

And thro’ a Vast that was never passed 
I listen for Life’s tone. 


I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the night, 

I have ridden the ghosts that flee 

From the vaults of death like a chilling breath 
Over eternity. 

And everywhere 
Is the world laid bare— 

Ether and star and clod— 

Until I wind to its brink and find 

But the cry, “Beyond lies God!” 


It calls me and ever calls me! 
And vainly I reply, 
“Fools only ride where the ways divide 
What is from the Whence and Why!” 
I’m lifted into the saddle 
Of thoughts too strong to tame 
And down the deeps and over the steeps 
I find—ever the same. 


I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the stars, 

I have ridden the force that flies 

With far intent through the firmament 
And each to each allies. 

And everywhere 


110 ~=©>—s School Poetry for Oral Expression 


That a thought may dare 
To gallop, mine has trod— 
Only to stand at last on the strand 
Where just beyond lies God. 
Reprinted by permission of the author and The Century 
Company, the publishers of the author’s works, among 
which are, “Sea Poems,” “Shadowy Thresholds,” “Songs 


to A. H. R.,” “Wraiths and Realities,” “Earth and New 
Earth,” and “Trails Sunward.” 


Earth 


John Hall Wheelock 


John Hall Wheelock is a literary worker of note, and has been 
long connected with the publishing house of Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
N. Y. He is a contributor to Harper's, Scribner’s, The Century, 
and other magazines, and has published many volumes of poetry. 


This poem, “Earth,” taken from the author’s book, ‘‘Dust and 
Light,’ shows great depth and breadth. It should be read slowly, 
with somewhat of grandeur and majesty. At times the style may 
approach the scriptural. 


GRASSHOPPER, your fairy song 

And my poem alike belong 

To the deep and silent earth 

From which all poetry has birth; 

All we say and all we sing 

Is but as the murmuring 

Of that drowsy heart of hers 

When from her deep dream she stirs: 
If we sorrow or rejoice, 

You and I are but her voice. 


Deftly does the dust express 
In mind her hidden loveliness, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 111 


And from her cool silence stream 
The cricket’s cry and Dante’s dream: 
For the earth that breeds the trees 
Breeds cities too, and symphonies ; 
Equally her beauty flows 

Into a savior, or a rose— 

Toiling up the steep ascent 

Towards the complete accomplishment 
When all dust shall be, the whole 
Universe, one conscious soul. 


Yea, the quiet and cool sod 

Bears in her breast the dream of God. 
If you would know what earth is, scan 
The intricate, proud heart of man, 
Which is the earth articulate, 

And learn how holy and how great, 
How limitless and hew profound 

Is the nature of the ground— 

How without terror or demur 

We may entrust ourselves to her 
When we are wearied out, and lay 
Our faces in the common clay. 


For she is pity, she is love, 

All wisdom she, all thoughts that move 
About her everlasting breast 

Till she gathers them to rest: 

All tenderness of all the ages, 
Seraphic secrets of the sages, 

Vision and hope of all the seers, 

All prayer, all anguish, and all tears 


II2 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Are but the dust, that from her dream 
Awakes, and knows herself supreme— 
Looks down in dream, and from above 
Smiles at herself in Jesus’ love. 
Christ’s love and Homer’s art 

Are but the workings of her heart; 
Through Leonardo’s hand she seeks 
Herself, and through Beethoven speaks 
In holy thunderings around 

The awful message of the ground. 


The serene and humble mould 
Does in herself all selves enfold— 
Kingdoms, destinies, and creeds, 
Great dreams and dauntless deeds, 
Science that metes the firmament, 
The high, inflexible intent 

Of one for many sacrificed— 
Plato’s brain, the heart of Christ; 
All love, all legend, and all lore 
Are in the dust forevermore. 


Even as the growing grass 

Up from the soil religions pass, 
And the field that bears the rve 
Bears parables and prophecy. 
Out of the earth the poem grows 
Like the lily, or the rose; 

And all man is, or yet may be, 

Is but herself in agony, 

Are but earth when she reveals 
All that her secret heart conceals 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 113 


Down in the dark and silent loam, 
Which is ourselves, asleep, at home. 
Reprinted by permission of the author from his book, 


Dust and Light. Copyright 1919, by Charles Scribner’s 
Sons. 


The House of Life 


Madison Cawein 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “Deserted,” 
page 39. 


The splendid courage and heroism of this poem should be 
rendered with a strong, firm voice. As every line is heavily 
charged with meaning, the rate should be slow. 


THEY are the wise who look before, 
Nor fear to look behind ; 

Who in the darkness still ignore 
Pale shadows of the mind. 


Who, having lost, though loss be much, 
Still dare to dream and do; 

For what was shattered at a touch 
It may be mended, too. 


The House of Life has many a door 
That leads to many a room; 

And only they who look before 
Shall win from out its gloom. 


_ Who stand and sigh and look behind, 
Regretful of past years, 
No room of all those rooms shall find 
That is not filled with fears. 


114 School Poeiry for Oral Expression 


Tis better not to stop or stay; 
But set all fear aside, 

Fling wide the door, whate’er the way, 
And enter at a stride. 


Who dares, may win to his desire; 
Or failing, reach the tower, 
Whereon Life lights the beacon-fire 
Of one immortal hour. 
Reprinted by permission of The Youth's Compamion, 


and by permission of, and special arrangement with, E. P. 
Dutton and Company. 


The Kings 


Louise Imogen Guiney 


Louise Imogen Guiney was born in Boston, but later resided 
in Oxford, England. She is well known as an editor of literary 
works, and published several volumes of her own poetry. 


This poem, with its splendid heroism, should be delivered in a 
firm, strong tone, revealing an unconquerable soul. 


A MAN said unto his Angel: 
“My spirits are fallen low, 

And I cannot carry this battle: 
O brother! where might I go? 


“The terrible Kings are on me 
With spears that are deadly bright; 
Against me so from the cradle 
Do fate and my fathers fight.” 


Then said to the man his Angel: 
“Thou wavering, witless soul, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Back to the ranks! What matter 
To win or lose the whole, 


“As judged by the little judges 
Who harken not well nor see? 
Not thus, by the outer issue, 
The Wise shall interpret thee. 


“Thy will is the sovereign measure 
Of all events of things. 

The puniest heart, defying, 

Were stronger than all these Kings. 


“Though out of the past they gather, 
Mind’s Doubt, and Bodily Pain, 

And pallid Thirst of the Spirit 

That is kin to the other twain, 


“And Grief, in a cloud of banners, 
And ringleted Vain Desires, 

And Vice, with the spoils upon him 
Of thee and thy beaten sires,— 


“While Kings of eternal evil 
Yet darken the hills about, 
Thy part is with broken sabre 
To rise on the last redoubt; 


“To fear not sensible failure, 
Not covet the game at all, 

But fighting, fighting, fighting, 
Die, driven against the wall.” 


115 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, Houghton Mifflin Company. 


116 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


To-day 
Angela Morgan 


Angela Morgan was born in Washington, D. C., and was ed- 
ucated at Columbia University and at Chautauqua, N. Y. She 
began writing early in her life and in 1915 delivered an original 
poem entitled, “The Battle Cry of Mothers,” to the International 
Congress of Women at The Hague. She has written some fiction 
and a number of poems, and contributes to several of the leading 
magazines. 


Deliver this inspiring poem with enthusiasm and high heart. 


To be alive in such an age! 
With every year a lightning page 
Turned in the world’s great wonder book 
Whereon the leaning nations look. 
When men speak strong for brotherhood, 
For peace and universal good, 
When miracles are everywhere 
And every inch of common air 
Throbs a tremendous prophecy 
Of greater marvels yet to be. 

O thrilling age! 

O willing age! 
When steel and stone and rail and rod 
Become the avenue of God— 
A trump to shout His thunder through, 
To crown the work that man may do. 


To be alive in such an age! 

When man, impatient of his cage, 
Thrills to the soul’s immortal rage 
For conquest—reaches goal on goal, 
Travels the earth from pole to pole, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 117 


Garners the tempests and the tides 
And on a Dream Triumphant rides. 
When, hid within a lump of clay, 
A light more terrible than day 
Proclaims the presence of that Force 
Which hurls the planets on their course— 
O age with wings! 
O age that flings 
A challenge to the very sky 
Where endless realms of conquest lie. 
When earth, on tiptoe, strives to hear 
The message of a sister sphere, 
Yearning to reach the cosmic wires 
That flash Infinity’s desires. 


To be alive in such an age! 
That thunders forth. its discontent 
With futile creed and sacrament, 
Yet craves to utter God’s intent, 
Seeing beneath the world’s unrest 
Creation’s huge, untiring quest, 
And through Tradition’s broken crust 
The flame of Truth’s triumphant thrust; 
Below the seething thought of man 
The push of a stupendous Plan. 

O age of strife! 

O age of life! 
When Progress rides her chariot high, 
And on the borders of the sky 
The signals of the century 
Proclaim the things that are to be... 
The rise of woman to her place, 


118 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The coming of a nobler race. 
To be alive in such an age— 

To live to it, 

To give to it! 
Rise, soul, from thy despairing knees. 
What if thy lips have drunk the lees? 
Fling forth thy sorrow to the wind— 
And link thy hope with humankind... 
The passion of a larger claim 
Will put thy puny grief to shame. 
Breathe the world thought, do the world deed, 
Think hugely of thy brother’s need. 
And what thy woe, and what thy weal? 
Look to the work the times reveal! 
Give thanks with all thy flaming heart— 
Crave but to have in it a part. 
Give thanks and clasp thy heritage— 
To be alive in such an age! 


Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, Dodd, Mead and Company. 


Work 


Angela Morgan 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “Today,” 


page 116, 
This poem should be read with fervor and tensity, but with a 
spirit of delight pervading the whole. 


Work! 

Thank God for the might of it, 

The ardor, the urge, the delight of it— 
Work that springs from the heart’s desire, 
Setting the brain and the soul on fire— 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, 

And what is so glad as the beat of it, 

And what is so kind as the stern command, 
Challenging brain and heart and hand? 


Work! 

Thank God for the pride of it, 

For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, 
Sweeping the life in its furious flood, 
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, 
Mastering stupor and dull despair, 

Moving the dreamer to do and dare. 

Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, 
And what is so glad as the surge of it, 


I19g 


And what is so strong as the summons deep, 


Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? 


Work! 

Thank God for the pace of it, 

For the terrible, keen swift race of it; 
Fiery steeds in full control, 

Nostrils a-quiver to meet the goal. 

Work, the Power that drives behind, 
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, 
Holding the runaway wishes back, 
Reining the will to one steady track, 
Speeding the energies faster, faster, 
Triumphing over disaster. 

Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, 
And what is so great as the gain of it? 
And what is so kind as the cruel goad, 
Forcing us on through the rugged road? 


120 ©>s School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Work! 

Thank God for the swing of it, 

For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, 
Passion of labor daily hurled 

On the mighty anvils of the world. 

Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? 

And what is so huge as the aim of it? 
Thundering on through dearth and doubt, 
Calling the plan of the Maker out. 

Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, 

Shaping the earth to a glorious end, 
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills, 
Doing whatever the Spirit wills— 

Rending a continent apart, 

To answer the dream of the Master heart. 
Thank God for a world where none may shirk— 
Thank God for the splendor of work! 


Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, Dodd, Mead and Company. 


The Weather-Vane 


Bliss Carman 


For biographical note concerning Bliss Carman, see “The Winter 
Scene,’’ page 37- 


In spite of the slight theme of this poem, it is successful on 
account of the exquisite imaginative treatment of the little mer- 
maiden. There is much of the child’s fairy tale in the selection, 
and yet somewhat of deep philosophy. Strive to bring out both. 


I saw a painted weather-vane 
That stood above the sands— 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 121 


A little shining mermaiden 
That turned and waved her hands. 


She turned and turned, and waved and waved, 
Then faced up toward the hill, 

Then faced about and back again, 
Then suddenly stood still. 


And every time the wind came up 
Out of the great cool sea, 

She’d spin and spin and whirl her arms 
As if in dancing glee. 


And when the wind came down the road 
With scent of new-mown hay, 

She whirled about and danced again 
In ecstasy of play. 


It seemed as if her madcap heart 
Could never quite decide 

Whether her heaven was on the hill, 
Or on the drifting tide. 


And would she rather be a sprite, 
To guard some singing stream, 

To sparkle in the Summer field 
And through the forest gleam? 


Or would she be an ocean child, 
A spirit of the deep, 

To run upon the billows wild 
And in their cradle sleep? 


122 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And still she turned and veered between 
The river and the sea. 

And many a time I thought her hands 
Were praying to be free. 


And then there came a night of storm, 
Of wind and dark and snow, 

And in the morn my shining vane 
Had vanished in the blow. 


Reprinted by permission of the author. 


Portrait of a Lady 


Sarah Northcliffe Cleghorn 


Sarah Northcliffe Cleghorn was born at Norfolk, Virginia, Feb- 
ruary 4, 1876. Some of her books are, “The Turnpike Lady,” 
1907; “The Spinster,” 1916; “Fellow Captains’ (with Dorothy 
Canfield Fisher), 1916; and ‘Portraits and Protests,” 1917. 


Can you picture this lady for yourself? Do you not admire 
her? Bring this deep admiration into your reading. 


HER eyes are sunlit hazel: 

Soft shadows round them play. 
Her dark hair, smoothly ordered, 
Is faintly touched with gray. 

Full of a gentle brightness 
Her look and language are:— 

Kind tongue that never wounded, 
Sweet mirth that leaves no scar, 


Her dresses are soft lilac 
And silver-pearly gray. 
She wears, on meet occasion, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Modes of a by-gone day, 

Yet moves with bright composure 
In fashion’s pageant set, 

Until her world she teaches 
Its costume to forget. 


With score of friends foregathered 
Before a cheerful blaze, 

She loves good ranging converse 
Of past and future days. 

Her best delight (too seldom) 
From olden friends to hear 

How fares the small old city 
She left this many a year. 


(There is a still more pleasant, 
A cozier converse still, 
When, all the guests departed, 
Close comrades talk their fill. 
Beside our smoldering fire 
We muse and wonder late; 
Commingling household gossip 
With talk of gods and fate.) 


All seeming ways of living,— 
Proportion, comeliness, 
Authority and order,— 
Her loyal heart possess. 
Then with what happy fingers 
She spreads the linen fair 
In that great Church of Bishops 
That is her darling care! 


123 


124 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


And yet I dare to forecast 
What her new name must be 
Writ in the mystic volume 
Beside the crystal sea :— 
Instead of “True Believer,” 
The golden quill hath penned, 
“Of the poor beasts that perish, 
The brave and noble friend.” 


Reprinted by permission of the author and ‘Charles 
Scribner’s Sons. Copyright 1919. 


The Wild Ride 


Louise Imogen Guiney 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Kings,” 
page 114. 


Here is life, summed up in a score of lines. Read the poem 
with courage and heroism, but do not treat the passing interests 
of life mentioned in the poem with too great scorn or brutality. 
Perhaps half the beauty of this selection lies in our longing for 
the pleasures of life, although we know we must leave them. 


I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 

All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, 

All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing 
and neighing. 


Let cowards and laggards fall back! But alert to 
the saddle, 

Weatherworn and abreast, go men of our galloping 
legion, 

With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that 
loves him. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 125 


The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags 
and morasses ; 

There are shapes by the way, there are things that 
appall or entice us: 

What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are 
vowed to the riding. 


Thought’s self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a 


cobweb, 

And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a 
sunbeam: 

Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our 
pursuing. 


A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, 

A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty ; 

We hurry with never a word in the track of our 
fathers. 


I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 

All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, 

All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing 
and neighing. 


We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm- 
wind ; 

We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the 
anvil, 

Thou leadest, O God! A\ll’s well with Thy troopers 
that follow. 


126 = School Poetry for Oral Expression 


At the Crossroads 


Richard Hovey 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “The Sea 
Gypsy,” page 14. 


This poem, like the preceding, has a note of high heroism, but 
friendship here is made to triumph over Fate. Seek a balance 
between the note of fatalism and the note of friendship. 


You to the left and I to the right, 

For the ways of men must sever— 

And it well may be for a day and a night, 
And it well may be forever. 

But whether we meet or whether we part 
(For our ways are past our knowing), 

A pledge from the heart to its fellow heart 
On the ways we all are going! 

Here’s luck! 

For we know not where we are going. 


Whether we win or whether we lose 

With the hands that life is dealing, 

It is not we nor the ways we choose, 

But the fall of the cards that’s sealing. © 

There’s a fate in love and a fate in fight, 

And the best of us all go under— 

And whether we’re wrong or whether we're right, 
We win, sometimes, to our wonder. 

Here’s luck! 

That we may not go under! 


With a steady swing and an open brow 
We have tramped the ways together, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 127 


But we’re clasping hands at the crossroads now 
In the Fiend’s own night for weather ; 

And whether we bleed or whether we smile 

In the leagues that lie before us 

The ways of life are many a mile 

And the dark of Fate is o’er us. 

Here’s luck! 

And a cheer for the dark before us! 


You to the left and I to the right, 

For the ways of men must sever, 

And it well may be for a day and a night 
And it well may be forever! 

But whether we live or whether we die 
(For the end is past our knowing), 

Here’s two frank hearts and the open sky, 
Be a fair or an ill wind blowing! 
HERE’S LUCK! 

In the teeth of all winds blowing. 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrangement 
with, Small, Maynard and Company. 


Martin 


Joyce Kilmer 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “Roofs,” page 63. 


Here is a sharp rebuke for modern materialistic standards. 
Lively conversational inflections predominate throughout. 


WHEN I am tired of earnest men, 


Intense and keen and sharp and clever, 
Pursuing fame with brush or pen 


128 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Or counting metal discs forever, 
Then from the halls of shadowland 
Beyond the trackless purple sea 
Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand 
Beside my desk and talk to me. 


Still on his delicate pale face 
A quizzical thin smile is showing, 
His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, 
His kind blue eyes are gray and glowing. 
He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, 
A suit to match his soft gray hair, 
A rakish stick, a knowing hat, 
A manner blithe and debonair. 


How good, that he who always knew 
That being lovely was a duty, 
Should have gold halls to wander through 
And should himself inhabit beauty. 
How like his old unselfish way 
To leave those halls of splendid mirth 
And comfort those condemned to stay 
Upon the bleak and sombre earth. 


Some people ask: What cruel chance 
Made Martin’s life so sad a story? 
Martin? Why, he exhaled romance 
And wore an overcoat of glory. 
A fleck of sunlight in the street, 
A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,— 
Such visions made each moment sweet 
For this receptive, ancient child. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 129 


Because it was old Martin’s lot 
To be, not make, a decoration, 
Shall we then scorn him, having not 
His genius of appreciation? 
Rich joy and love he got and gave; 
His heart was merry as his dress. 
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave 
Who did not gain, but was, success. 
From The Poems of Joyce Kilmer, reprinted by per- 


mission of George H. Doran Company, Publishers. Copy- 
right 1918. 


The Falconer of God 


William Rose Benét 


William Rose Benét was born at Fort Hamilton, N. Y., Feb. 2, 
1886. He was graduated from the Albany Academy in 1904 and 
obtained the degree of Ph.B. from Sheffield Scientific School in 
1907. He was connected with the Century Magazine from that 
time until he went into the Air Service during the War. In 
1919, he became editor of The Nation’s Business, and contributes 
poems and humorous verse to many American magazines, 


This poem involves a highly imaginative conception of the com- 
mon human experience that a realized desire rarely brings the 
satisfaction anticipated. The wording is mystic to a large degree, 
but abounds in beautiful imagery. Read the selection with a good 
deal of grandeur and majesty. 

I FLUNG my soul to the air like a falcon flying. 
I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below! 
I shall start a heron soon 
In the marsh beneath the moon— 
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings, 
Rising and crying 
Wordless, wondrous things; 
The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart strings, 


The answer to their woe. 


130 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold 
him so!” 


My wild soul waited on as falcons hover. 
I beat the reedy fens as I trampled past. 
I heard the mournful loon 
In the marsh beneath the moon. 
And then—with feathery thunder—the bird of my 
desire 
Broke from the cover 
Flashing silver fire. 
High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire. 
The pale clouds gazed aghast 
As my falcon stoopt upon him, gript and held him 
fast. 


My soul dropt through the air—with heavenly 
plunder P— 
Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew? 
Nay! but a piteous freight, 
A dark and heavy weight 
Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever 
stilled,— 
All of the wonder 
Gone that ever filled 
Its guise with glory. Oh, bird that I have killed, 
How brilliantly you flew 
Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of 
you! 


Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor, 
And I ride the world below with a joyful mind. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 131 


I shall start a heron soon 
In the marsh beneath the moon— 
A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges! 
I beat forever 
The fens and the sedges. 
The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous 
pledges, 
All hopes resigned ! 
My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall 
find. 


Reprinted by permission of the author and The Yale 
University Press. 


Grieve Net for Beauty 


Witter Bynner 


For biographical note concerning the author, see “‘Apollo Trou- 
badour,”’ page 147. 


Here is a pagan philosophy of a high, transcendent order. As 
our physical beauty is not lost, but reproduced in a thousand ways 
in Nature, so our souls are not lost, but are Teproduced in a 
thousand ways in the spiritual world. Throughout there runs the 
spirit of triumph over death, but withal a quiet resignation. In 
rendering this poem, the voice should be clear, yet speak from out 
a hushed silence, as if in the ‘‘vasty halls of death.” 


Avmost the body leads the laggard soul; bidding it 
see 

The beauty of surrender, the tranquillity 

Of fusion with the earth. The body turns to dust 

Not only by a sudden whelming thrust 

Or at the end of a corrupting calm, 

But oftentimes anticipates, and entering flowers and 
trees 


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Upon a hillside or along the brink 
Of streams, encounters instances 

Of its eventual enterprise: 

Inhabits the enclosing clay, 

In rhapsody is caught away 

In a great tide 

Of beauty, to abide 

Translated through the night and day 
Of time, and by the anointing balm 
Of earth to outgrow decay. 


Hark in the wind—the word of silent lips! 

Look where some subtle throat, that once had 
wakened lust, 

Lies clear and lovely now, a silver link 

Of change and peace! 

Hollows and willows and a river-bed, 

Anemones and clouds, 

Raindrops and tender distances 

Above, beneath, 

Inherit and bequeath 

Our far-begotten beauty. We are eda 

With many kindred who were seeming dead. 

Only the delicate woven shrouds 

Are vanished, beauty thrown aside 

To honor and uncover 

A deeper beauty—as the veil that slips 

Breathless away between a lover 

And his bride. 


So, by the body, may the soul surmise 
The beauty of surrender, the tranquillity 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Of fusion: when, set free 

From semblance of mortality, 

Yielding its dust the richer to endue 

A common avenue 

Of earth for other souls to journey through, 
It shall put on in purer guise 

The mutual beauty of its destiny. 


And who shall fear for his identity, 

And who shall cling to the poor privacy 
Of incompleteness, when the end explains 
That what pride forfeits, beauty gains! 
Therefore, O spirit, as a runner strips 
Upon a windy afternoon, 

Be unencumbered of what troubles you— 
Arise with grace 

And greatly go, the wind upon your face! 


Grieve not for the invisible transported brow 
On which like leaves the dark hair grew; 
Nor for the lips of laughter that are now 
Laughing inaudibly in sun and dew; 

Nor for the limbs that, fallen low 

And seeming faint and slow, 

Shall alter and renew 

Their shape and hue 

Like birches white before the moon, 

Or a young apple-tree 

In spring, or the round sea; 

And shall pursue 

More ways of swiftness than the swallow dips 


133 


134 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Among... and find more winds than ever blew 
The straining sails of unimpeded ships! 


For never beauty dies 

That lived. Nightly the skies 

Assemble stars, the light of many eyes, 
And daily brood on the communal breath— 
Which we call death. 


Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
with, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 


To the Dead in the Graveyard 
Underneath My Window 


Adelaide Crapsey 


Adelaide Crapsey was born at Rochester, New York, in 1878. 
She graduated from Vassar in 1901. She became instructor in 
Poetics at Smith College in 1911, but failing health compelled her 
to retire in 1913. Between 1913 and 1914, when she died, she 
did most of her poetic writing. 


What fine rebellion here! How the spirit chafes at the bonds 
of the broken body! Lively inflections characterize the whole poem, 
with the exception of the last few lines. 


How can you lie so still? All day I watch 

And never a blade of all the green sod moves 
To show where restlessly you turn and toss, 

Or fling a desperate arm or draw up knees 
Stiffened and aching from their long disuse. 

I watch all night, and not one ghost comes forth 
To take its freedom of the midnight hour. 

Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? 

The very worms must scorn you where you lie— 
A pallid, mouldering, acquiescent folk, 

Meek habitants of unresented graves. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 135 


Why are you there in your straight row on row, 
Where I must ever see you from my bed 

That in your mere dumb presence iterate 

The text so weary in my ears: “Lie still 

And rest—be patient, and lie still and rest.” 
I'll not be patient! I will not lie still! 

There is a brown road runs between the pines, 
And further on the purple woodlands lie, 

And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; 
And I would walk the road, and I would be 
Deep in the wooded shade, and I would reach 
The windy mountain-tops that touch the clouds. 
My eyes may follow but my feet are held. 
Recumbent as you others, must I too 

Submit ?—be mimic of your movelessness, 
With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? 
And if the many sayings of the wise 

Teach of submission, I will not submit, 

But with a spirit all unreconciled 

Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. 
Better it is to walk, to run, to dance; 

Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, 

To know the open skies of dawn and night, 

To move untrammeled down the flaming noon: 
And I will clamor it through weary days, 
Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp; 

Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips 

Of resignation, sister to defeat. 

I’ll not be patient! I will not lie still! 


And in ironic quietude who is 
The despot of our days and lord of dust 


136 = School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop 

Grim casual comment on rebellion’s end; 

“Yes, yes... . Wilful and petulant, but now 
As dead and quiet as the others are.” 

And this each body and ghost of you hath heard 
That in your graves do therefore lie so still. 


Reprinted from Verse by Adelaide Crapsey, by per- 
mission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publishers. 


Mother Earth 


Harriet Monroe 


Harriet Monroe is editor of Poetry, and, with Alice Corbin 
Henderson, is the compiler of “The New Poetry,” a collection of 
modern verse published by The Macmillan Company, New York, 
in 1917, and in 1923. Her volumes of poetry include “The Passing 
Show,” published by Houghton Mifflin Company, and “You and 
I,” published by The Macmillan Company. 


Be sure you grasp the wide sweep of imagination in this poem. 
Bring out the triumph that is found in Man. Do not neglect, 
Nowever, the music of the lines. 


Ou, a grand old time has the earth 
In the long long life she lives! 
From her huge mist-shrouded birth, 
When, reeling from under, 

She tore space asunder, 

And, feeling her way 

Through the dim first day, 

Rose wheeling to run 

In the path of the sun— 

From then till forever, 

Tiring not, pausing never, 

She labors and laughs and gives. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 137 


Plains and mountains 

She slowly makes, 

With mighty hand 

Sifting the sand, 

Lifting the land 

Out of the soft wet clutch of the shouting sea. 
At lofty fountains 

Her thirst she slakes, 

And over the hills 

Through the dancing rills 

Wide rivers she fills, 

That shine and sing and leap in their joy to be free. 
Cool greenness she needs 

And rich odor of bloom; 

And longing, believing, 

Slowly conceiving, 

Her germ-woof weaving, 

She spawns little seeds 

By the fieldful, the worldful, 

And laughs as the pattern grows fair at her loom. 


Proudly she trails 

Her flower-broidered dresses © 

In the sight of the sun. 

Loudly she hails 

Through her far-streaming tresses 

His racers that run. 

For her heart, ever living, grows eager for life, 
Its delight and desire; 

She feels the high praise of its passion and strife, 
Of its rapture and fire. 

There are wings and songs in her trees, 


138 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


There are gleaming fish in her seas; - 
The brute beasts brave her 

And gnaw her and crave her; 

And out of the heart of these 

She wrests a dream, a hope, 

An arrogant plan 

Of life that shall meet her, 

Shall know and complete her, 

That through ages shall climb and grope, 
And at last be Man. 


Out of the bitter void she wins him— 
Out of the night; 

With terror and wild hope begins him, 
And fierce delight. 

She beats him into caves, 

She starves and spurns him. 

Her hills and plains are graves— 

Into dust she turns him. 

She teaches him war and wrath 

And waste and lust and greed; 

Then over his blood-red path 

She scatters her fruitful seed. 

With bloom of a thousand flowers, 
With songs of the summer hours, 
With the love of the wind for the tree, 
With the dance of the sun on the sea, 
She lulls and quells him— 

Oh soft her caress! 

And tenderly tells him 

Of happiness 

Through her ages of years, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 139 


Through his toil and his tears. 
At her wayward pleasure 
She yields of her treasure 
A gleam, a hope, 

Even a day of days 

When the wide heavens ope 
And he loves and prays. 
Then she laughs in wonder 
To see him rise 

Her leash from under 

And brave the skies! 


Oh, a grand old time has the earth 

In the long long life she lives !— 

A grand old time at her work sublime 
As she labors and laughs and gives! 


Reprinted by permission of the author from her book, 
You and I, published by The Macmillan Company. 


Beyond the Stars 


Charles Hanson Towne 


Charles Hanson Towne was born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 
1877. He is an active journalist, having been editor of The Smart 
Set, The Delineator, The Designer, and McClure’s Magazine. 
Among his published volumes of poetry are ‘‘The Quiet Singer,” 
“Manhattan,” ‘“‘Youth,” “Beyond the Stars and Other Poems,’ 
all published by Mitchell Kennerley, and ““Today and Tomorrow,” 
and “Autumn Loiterers,” published by Geo. H, Doran and Co., 
New York. 


Here is another voice proclaiming the same philosophy as is 
found in Witter Bynner’s ‘‘Grieve not for Beauty.’’ The tone is 
strong and rapturous. Give the imagination free rein, and deliver 
with fervor. 


THREE days I heard them grieve when I lay dead, 
(It was so strange to me that they should weep!) 


140 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Tall candles burned about me in the dark, 
And a great crucifix was on my breast, 
And a great silence filled the lonesome room. 


I heard one whisper, “Lo! the dawn is breaking, 

And he has lost the wonder of the day.” 

Another came whom I had loved on earth, 

And kissed my brow and brushed my dampened 
hair. 

Softly she spoke: “Oh, that he should not see 

The April that his spirit bathed in! Birds 

Are singing in the orchard, and the grass 

That soon will cover him is growing green. 

The daisies whiten on the emerald hills, 

And the immortal magic that he loved 

Wakens again—and he has fallen asleep.” 

Another said: “Last night I saw the moon 

Like a tremendous lantern shine in heaven, 

And I could only think of him—and sob. 

For I remembered evenings wonderful 

When he was faint with life’s sad loveliness, 

And watched the silver ribbons wandering far 

Along the shore, and out upon the sea. 

Oh, I remembered how he loved the world, 

The sighing ocean and the flaming stars, 

The everlasting glamour God has given— 

His tapestries that wrap the earth’s wide room. 

I minded me of mornings filled with rain 

When he would sit and listen to the sound 

As if it were lost music from the spheres. 

He loved the crocus and the hawthorn-hedge, 

He loved the shining gold of buttercups, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 141 


And the low droning of the drowsy bees 

That boomed across the meadows. He was glad 
At dawn or sundown; glad when Autumn came 
With her worn livery and scarlet crown, 

And glad when Winter rocked the earth to rest. 
Strange that he sleeps today when life is young, 
And the wild banners of the Spring are blowing 
With green inscriptions of the old delight.” 


I heard them whisper in the quiet room. 

I longed to open then my sealed eyes, 

And tell them of the glory that was mine. 

There was no darkness where my spirit flew, 

There was no night beyond the teeming world. 

Their April was like winter where I roamed ; 

Their flowers were like stones where now I fared. 

Earth’s day! it was as if I had not known 

What sunlight meant!... Yea, even as_ they 
grieved 

For all that I had lost in their pale place, 

I swung beyond the borders of the sky, 

And floated through the clouds, myself the air, 

Myself the ether, yet a matchless being 

Whom God had snatched from penury and pain 

To draw across the barricades of heaven. 

I climbed beyond the sun, beyond the moon; 

In flight on flight I touched the highest star ; 

I plunged to regions where the spring is born, 

Myself (I asked not how) the April wind, 

Myself the elements that are of God. 

Up flowery stairways of eternity 

I whirled in wonder and untrammeled joy, 


142 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


An atom, yet a portion of His dreaam— 
His dream that knows no end... . 


I was the rain, 
I was the dawn, I was the purple east, 
I was the moonlight on enchanted nights, 
(Yet time was lost to me) ; I was a flower 
For one to pluck who loved me; I was bliss, 
And rapture, splendid moments of delight; 
And I was prayer, and solitude, and hope; 
And always, always, always I was love. 
I tore asunder flimsy doors of time, 
And through the windows of my soul’s new sight 
I saw beyond the ultimate bounds of space. 
I was all things that I had loved on earth— 
The very moonbeam in that quiet room, 
The very sunlight one had dreamed I lost, 
The soul of the returning April grass, 
The spirit of the evening and the dawn, 
The perfume in unnumbered hawthorn-blooms, 
There was no shadow on my perfect peace, 
No knowledge that was hidden from my heart. 
I learned what music meant; I read the years; 
I found where rainbows hide, where tears begin; 
I trod the precincts of things yet unborn. 


Yea, while I found all wisdom (being dead) 
They grieved for me. ... I should have grieved 
for them! 


Reprinted by permission of Mitchell Kennerley, New 
York 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 143 


The Unconquered Air 


Florence Earle Coates 


Florence Earle Coates was born in Philadelphia, and educated 
at private schools in that city and in France and Belgium. She 
has published several volumes of poems, which were collected in 
two volumes and published in 1916. 


Pride, majesty, and superiority mark the early part of this poem. 
In the second part admiration for man’s heroism is the predominant 
note. The whole poem is upon an exalted plane, and should not 
be made trivial in any part. 


I 


OTHERS endure Man’s rule: he therefore deems 
I shall endure it—I, the unconquered Air! 
Imagines this triumphant strength may bear 
His paltry sway! yea, ignorantly dreams, 
Because proud Rhea now his vassal seems, 
And Neptune him obeys in billowy lair, 
That he a more sublime assault may dare, 
Where blown by tempest wild the vulture screams! 


Presumptuous, he mounts: I toss his bones 
Back from the height supernal he has braved: 
Ay, as his vessel nears my perilous zones, 
I blow the cockle-shell away like chaff 
And give him to the Sea he has enslaved. 
He founders in its depths; and then I laugh! 


2 
Impregnable I held myself, secure 


Against intrusion. Who can measure Man? 
How should I guess his mortal will outran 


144 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Defeat so far that danger could allure 
For its own sake ?—that he would all endure, 
All sacrifice, all suffer, rather than 
Forego the daring dreams Olympian 
That prophesy to him of victory sure? 


Ah, tameless courage !—dominating power 
That, all attempting, in a deathless hour 
Made earth-born Titans godlike, in revolt !— 
Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings: 
Who fears nor Fate, nor Time, nor what Time 
brings, 
May drive Apollo’s steeds, or wield the thunder- 
bolt! 


Reprinted by permission of, and by special arrange- 
ment with, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, the 
authorized publishers. 


I Shall Not Pass This Way Again 


Eva Rose York 


Mrs. Eva Rose York was born in Western Ontario in 1858. 
She was educated at Woodstock College and at the New England 
Conservatory of Music. She has written much occasional verse. 
At present her residence is Toronto, Canada, 


This poem is truly ‘“‘A Symphony.” The music of the verse is 
surpassingly rare. Make much of the prayer for forgiveness. 
Throughout the spirit of beauty is tinged with sadness. 


I SHALL not pass this way again— 
Although it bordered be with flowers, 
Although I rest in fragrant bowers, 

And hear the singing 
Of song-birds winging 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 145 


To highest heaven their gladsome flight ; 
Though moons are full and stars are bright, 
And winds and waves are softly sighing, 
While leafy trees make low replying ; 
Though voices clear in joyous strain 
Repeat a jubilant refrain ; 
Though rising suns their radiance throw 
On summer’s green and winter’s snow 
In such rare splendor that my heart 
Would ache from scenes like these to part; 
Though beauties heighten, 
And life-lights brighten, 
And joys proceed from every pain,— 
I shall not pass this way again. 


Then let me pluck the flowers that blow, 
And let me listen as I go 

To music rare 

That fills the air; 

And let hereafter 

Songs and laughter 
Fill every pause along the way ; 
And to my spirit let me say: 
“O soul, be happy; soon ’tis trod, 
The path made thus for thee by God. 
Be happy, thou, and bless His name 
By whom such marvelous beauty came.” 
And let no chance by me be lost 
To kindness show at any cost. 
I shall not pass this way again; 
Then let me now relieve some pain, 
Remove some barrier from the road, 


146 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Or brighten someone’s heavy load; 
A helping hand to this one lend, 
Then turn some other to befriend. 


O God, forgive 

That now I live 
As if I might, sometime, return 
To bless the weary ones that yearn 
For help and comfort every day,— 
For there be such along the way. 
O God, forgive that I have seen 
The beauty only, have not been 
Awake to sorrow such as this; 
That I have drunk the cup of bliss 
Remembering not that those there be 
Who drink the dregs of misery. 


I love the beauty of the scene, 
Would roam again o’er fields so green; 
But since I may not, let me spend 
My strength for others to the end,— 
For those who tread on rock and stone, 
And bear their burdens all alone, 
Who loiter not in leafy bowers, | 
Nor hear the birds nor pluck the flowers. 
A larger kindness give to me, 
A deeper love and sympathy ; 

Then, Oh, one day 

May someone say— 
Remembering a lessened pain— 
“Would she could pass this way again!” 


Taken by permission from “A Treasury of Canadian 
Verse,” published by E. P. Dutton and Company. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 147 


Apollo Troubadour 


Witter Bynner 


Witter Bynner was born at Brooklyn, N. Y., August ro, 1881. 
He is a graduate of Harvard and has been editor of several lead- 
ing magazines. He was instructor in English at the University of 
California in 1918-1919. He has written a number of plays and 
foems, and contributes to various magazines. 


Can you hear the hand-organ through this melody of words? 
Bring out the music, but let the wildly fantastic pictures steal 
gently through it all—almost as if the pictures were seen half 
dimly through a silken veil. 

WHEN a wandering Italian 
Yesterday at noon 

Played upon his hurdy-gurdy 
Suddenly a tune, 

There was magic in my ear-drums: 
Like a baby’s cup and spoon 
Tinkling time for many sleigh-bells, 
Many no-school, rainy-day-bells, 
Cow-bells, frog-bells, run-away-bells, 
Mingling with an ocean medley 

As of elemental people 

More emotional than wordy— 
Mermaids laughing off their tantrums, 
Mermen singing loud and sturdy,— 
Silver scales and fluting shells, 
Popping weeds and gurgles deadly, 
Coral chime from coral steeple, 
Intermittent deep-sea bells, 
Ringing over floating knuckles, 
Buried gold and swords and buckles, 
And a thousand bubbling chuckles, 


148 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Yesterday at noon— 

Such a melody as starfish, 

And all fish that really are fish. 
In a gay remote battalion 


Play at midnight to the moon! 


Could any playmate on our planet, 
Hid in a house of earth’s own granite, 
Be so devoid of primal fire 

That a wind from this wild crated lyre 
Should find no spark and fan it? 
Would any lady half in tears, 

Whose fashion, on a recent day 

Over the sea, had been to pay 
Vociferous gondoliers, 

Beg that the din be sent away 

And ask a gentleman, gravely treading 
As down the aisle at his own wedding 
To toss the foreigner a quarter 
Bribing him to leave the street ; 

That motor-horns and servants’ feet 
Familiar might resume, and sweet 

To her offended ears, 

The money-music of her peers! 


Apollo listened, took the quarter 

With his hat off to the buyer, 
Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy, 
Led away his hurdy-gurdy 

Street by street, then turned at last | 
Toward a likelier piece of earth 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Where a stream of chatter passed, 
Yesterday at noon; 

By a school he stopped and played 
Suddenly a tune. ... 

What a melody he made! 

Made in all those eager faces, 
Feet and hands and fingers! 

How they gathered, how they stayed 
With smiles and quick grimaces, 
Little man and little maid! 

How they took their places, 
Hopping, skipping, unafraid, 
Darting, rioting about, 

Squealing, laughing, shouting out! 
How, beyond a single doubt, 

In my own feet sprang the ardor 
(Even now the motion lingers) 
To be joining in their paces! 
Round and round the handle went,— 
Round their hearts went harder ;— 
Apollo urged the happy rout 


And beamed, ten times as well content 


With every son and daughter 


As though their little hands had lent 


The gentleman his quarter. 


(You would not guess—nor I deny— 


That that same gentleman was I!) 


No gentleman may watch a god 
With proper happiness therefrom; 
So street by street again I trod 


149 


150 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The way that we had come. 

He had not seen me following 

And yet I think he knew; 

For still, the less I heard of it 

The more his music grew; 

As if he made a bird of it 

To sing the distance through... 

And, O Apollo, how I thrilled, 

You liquid-eyed rapscallion, 

With every twig and twist of spring, 

Because your music rose and filled 

Each leafy vein with dew— 

With melody of olden sleigh-bells, 

Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells, 

And the heart of an Italian, 

And the tinkling cup and spoon,— 

Such a melody as star-fish, 

And all fish that really are fish, 

In a gay remote battalion 

Play at midnight to the moon! 

Reprinted by permission of the author and by per- 

mission of, and by special arrangement with, Alfred A. 


Knopf, Inc, New York, the publisher of the author’s 
works, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression I5I 


In Blossom Time 


Ina Donna Coolbrith 


Ina Donna CooJbrith was born in Tllinois, but came to California 
in her early childhood. She is a member of a number of societies 
and clubs in the West and is the only woman member of the 
Bohemian Club in San Francisco. She was invested with the 
poet laureateship of California in 1915. She is the author of a 
large number of poems, and contributes to the leading magazines 
of the country. 


This poem is almost pure music—the music of delight and 
freedom. Come as close to singing as you can and yet talk. 
Develop as beautiful and fitting a melody as you can. 


It’s O my heart, my heart, 
To be out in the sun and sing, 

To sing and shout in the fields about, 
In the balm and blossoming. 


Sing loud, O bird in the tree ; 
O bird, sing loud in the sky, 

And honey-bees, blacken the clover-bed ; 
There are none of you glad as I. 


The leaves laugh low in the wind, 
Laugh low with the wind at play; 
And the odorous call of the flowers all 

Entices my soul away. 


For oh, but the world is fair, is fair, 
And oh, but the world is sweet; 

I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould, 
And sit at the Master’s feet. 


And the love my heart would speak, 
J will fold in the lily’s rim, 


152 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek, 
May offer it up to Him. 


Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, 
O skylark, sing in the blue; 

Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, 
And my soul shall sing with you. 

Reprinted by permission of the author from her book, 


Songs of the Golden Gate, published by Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston. 


Tipperary in the Spring 
Dens Aloysius McCarthy 


Denis Aloysius McCarthy was born in Ireland, July 2s, 1870. 
He later came to United States and became an editorial writer 
for The Herald, Boston, and other publications. He devotes him- 
self to editorials and to lecturing on literary, patriotic, and social 
topics. 


As in so much lyric poetry, the problem here is to maintain the 
proper balance between the music and the sense. The lines where 
there are syllables lacking to make up the verse should be studied 
carefully, in order that they may be made to fit in with the rhythm 
of the other, more regular lines. 


Au, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the hawthorn’s whiter than the snow, 

When the feathered folk assemble, and the air is all 
a-tremble 

With their singing and their winging to and fro: 

When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant ves- 
ture on, 

And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 153 


And the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that 
dance— 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! 


Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When mists are rising from the lea, 

When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all 
beguiling, 

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea; 

And the shadows and the showers only multiply the 
flowers 

That the lavish hand of May will fling; 

Where in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly 
plays— 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! 


Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When life like the year is young, 

When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom 
breaking, 

And love words linger on the tongue; 

When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, 

And love dreams cluster and cling 

Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleas- 
ure, half of pain— 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! 


Reprinted by permission. Copyrighted by Little, Brown 
and Company. 


154. School Poetry for Oral Expression 


The Drum 


Edward Forrester Sutton 


Edward Forrester Sutton lives at 248 Central Park West, New 
York City. He has written much verse for current magazines. 
As yet his poems have not been published in book form, but a 
collection is being contemplated, 


This is a selection that would delight the old-time elocutionist. 
Do not carry the imitation of the drum too far. Bring out the 
import of the poem as you go along. Cast the message of each 
sort of drum in a different key. Do not forget to slow down 
the rate of utterance when the muffled drum is reached. Use all 
the elocution you possess, but use it sensibly, not grotesquely. 


THERE'S a rhythm down the road where the elms 
overarch 
Of the drum, of the drum, 
There’s a glint through the green, there’s a column 
on the march, 
Here they come, here they come, 
To the flat resounding clank they are tramping rank 


on rank, 
And the bayonet flashes ripple from the flank to 
the flank. 
“T am rhythm, marching rhythm,” says the 
drum. 


“No aid am I desiring of the loud brazen choiring 
“Of bugle or of trumpet, the lilt and the lyring, 
“I’m the slow dogged rhythm, unending, untiring, 
“IT am rhythm, marching rhythm,” says the 
drum. 
“I am rhythm, dogged rhythm, and the plod- 
ders feel me with ’em 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 155 


“T’m the two miles an hour that is empire, that 
is power, 
“T’m the slow resistless crawl in the dust-cloud’s 
choking pall, 
“T’m the marching days that run from the dawn 
to set of sun, 
“I’m the rifle and the kit and the dragging 
weight of it, 
“T’m the jaws grimly set and the faces dripping 
sweat, 
“I’m the how, vee and when, the ET AUB 
made for men,’ 
Says the rhythm, marching rhythm, of the 
drum. 
“Did you call my song ‘barbaric?’ Did you mutter, 
‘out of date’? 
“When you hear me with the foemen then your cry 
will come too late. 
“Here are hearts a-beating for you, to my pulsing 
as I come, 
“To the rhythm, tramping rhythm, 
“To the rhythm, dogged rhythm, 
“To the dogged tramping rhythm 
“Of the drum!” 


There’s a clashing snarling rhythm down the valley 
broad and ample 
Of the drum, kettledrum, 
There’s a low, swelling rumor that is cavalry 
a-trample, 
Here they come, here they come, 


tse 
€ 


156 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


To the brassy crash and wrangle, to the horseman’s 
clink and jangle, 
And the restive legs beneath ’em all a-welter and 
a-tangle. 
“I am rhythm, dancing rhythm,” says the drum. 
“White and sorrel, roan and dapple, hocks as shiny 
as an apple, 
“Don’t they make a splendid showing, ears a-prick- 
ing, tails a-blowing? 
“Good boys—bless ’em—well they’re knowing all 
my tricks to set ’em going 
“To my rhythm, clashing rhythm!” says the 
drum. 
“TI am rhythm, clashing rhythm, and the horses 
feel me with ’em. 
“T’m the foray and the raid, I’m the glancing 
sabre blade. 
“Now I’m here, now I’m there, flashing on the 
unaware, 
“How I scout before the ranks, how I cloud 
along the flanks, 
“How the highway smokes behind me let the 
faint stars tell that find me | 
“All night through, all night through, when the 
bridles drip with dew. 
“T’m the labor, toil, and pain, I’m the loss that 
shall be gain,” 
Says the rhythm, clashing rhythm, of the drum. 
“Did you speak of ‘useless slaughter’? Did you 
murmur ‘Christian love’? 
“Pray that such as these before you, when the war- 
cloud bursts above, 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 157 


“With the bridle on the pommel meet the foémen 
as they come, 
“To the rhythm, dashing rhythm, 
“To the rhythm, crashing rhythm 
“To the crashing, dashing rhythm 
“Of the drum!” 


There’s an echo shakes the valley o’er the rhythm 
deep and slow 
Of the drum, of the drum, 
’Tis the guns, the guns a-rolling on the bridges down 
below, 
Here they come, here they come, 
Hark the felloes grind and lumber through the 
shadows gray and umber, 
And the triple spans a-panting up the slope the 
stones encumber, 
With the rhythm, distant rhythm, of the 
drum. 
“°Tis the long Shapes of Fear that the moonlight 
silvers here, 
“And the jolting limber’s weighted with the silent 
cannoneer, 
“°*Tis the Pipes of Peace are passing, O ye people, 
give an ear!”’ 
Says the rhythm, iron rhythm, of the drum. 
“They are rhythm, thunder rhythm, and they 
do not need me with ’em, 
“That can overtone my choir like the bourdon 
from the spire. 
“Avant-garde am I to these Lords of Dreadful 
Revelries, 


158 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


“Tron Cyclops with an eye to confound the 
earth and sky. 
“Love and Fear, Love and Fear, neither one but 
both revere, 
“And whatever grace ye deal let it be from 
courts of steel, 
“Set the guns’ emplacement then to expound 
the Law to men,” 
Says the rhythm, iron rhythm of the drum. 
“O ye coiners, sentence-joiners, in a fatted, trades- 
man’s land, 
“Here’s evangel Pentecostal that all nations under- 
stand. 
“When they speak before the battle fools and 
theories are dumb!” 
God be with ’em, and the rhythm, 
And the rhythm, iron rhythm, 
And the rolling thunder rhythm 
Of the drum! 


There’s a rhythm still and toneless with the wind 
amid the green, 
Of the drum, muffled drum, 
And there’s arms reversed, and something, ‘neath a 
flag that goes between 
As they come, as they come. 
“Just a soldier, nothing more, such as all the ages 
bore 
“And as time and tide shall bear them till the sun 
be sere and hoar,” 
Says the rhythm, muffled rhythm, of the drum. 
“No more am I requiring of the keen brazen lyring 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 159 


“Then ‘taps’ from the bugle—some shots for the 
firing. 
“Hats off; stand aside; it is all I’m desiring,” 
Says the rhythm, muffled rhythm, of the drum. 
“T am rhythm, muffled rhythm; long and deep 
farewell go with him, 
“Hands that bore their portion through tasks 
our nature needs must do, 
“Feet that stepped the ancient rhyme of the 
battle-march of Time. 
“Blood or tribute, steel or gold, still Vae Victts 
as of old, 
“Stern and curt the message runs taught to sons 
and sons of sons. 
“Chaw a canon, would you call? What else 
are we, one and all? 
“Write it thus to close his span: ‘Here there 
lies a fighting man,’ ” 
Says the rhythm, muffled rhythm, of the drum. 
“O ye farms upon the hillside, and ye cities by the 
sea, 
“With the laughter of young mothers and their 
babes about the knee, 
“*Tis a heart that once beat for you that is passing, 
still and dumb, 
“To the rhythm, muffled rhythm, 
“To the rhythm, solemn rhythm, 
“To the slow and muffled rhythm 
“Of the drum!” 


Reprinted by permission of the author from Poems of 
the Great War, published by the Yale University Press. 


160 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


A Song of Sherwood 


Alfred Noyes 


Alfred Noyes was born at Staffordshire, England, in 1880, and 
was educated at Oxford. He has published several volumes of 
poetry, his works being collected in 1913, and published by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. Noyes is noted for his 
musical rhythms. 


Sherwood Forest, in Nottinghamshire, England, formerly of large 
extent, was the principal scene of the legendary exploits of Robin 
Hood. If you visualize the scene by reviewing the stories of 
Robin Hood, no difficulty will be found in reading this beautiful 
poem. 


SHERWOOD in the twilight! Is Robin Hood awake? 

Gray and ghostly shadows are gliding through the 
brake, 

Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, 

Dreaming of a shadowy mari that winds a shadowy 
horn. 


Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves 

Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the 
leaves, 

Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 


Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: 

All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the 
moon, 

Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist 

Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst. 


Merry, merry England is waking as of old, 
With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 161 


For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting 
spray 
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 


Love is in the greenwood building him a house 
Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs: 
Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies, 
And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes. 


Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden 
steep ! 

Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep? 

Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 


Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, 

Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, 

Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, 

And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest 
bed. 


Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together 

With quarter-staff and drinking-can and gray goose- 
feather. 

The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled 
away 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 


Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows. 

All the heart of England hid in every rose 

Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, 
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? 


162 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old 

And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter 
gold, 

Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, 

Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? 


Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen 

All across the glades of fern he calls his merry 
men— 

Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the 
May 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day— 


Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and 


ash 

Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to 
crash, 

The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to 
fly, 


And through the crimson dawning the robber band 
goes by. 


Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merry thieves 

Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves, 

Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 
Reprinted by permission from Collected Poems, by 


Alfred Noyes. Copyright 1913 by Frederick A. Stokes 
Company. 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 163 


The Heroes of the Yukon 


John Augustus Gilkey 


John Augustus Gilkey was born in Troy, Maine, in 1853. He 
is a lineal descendant of Thomas Rogers of the Mayflower, also of 
Col. Edmund Phinney, an officer of the American Army in the 
Revolution. He was educated in the public schools of Maine and 
the University of Washington. The following poem written by 
him, won first prize in an Oratorical Contest recently held in the 
State of Oregon. 

During the winter of 1924-25, a diphtheria epidemic broke out 
in Alaska. To add to the horror of the dread disease, there was 
no more diphtheria serum left in Nome. Word was sent out from 
the stricken territory asking that diphtheria serum be rushed to 
the helpless victims. Because of the snow and ice, the serum 
could not be sent by ordinary means. ‘‘Wild Bill’? Shannon, the 
hero of many a Northland tale, offered to rush the precious serum 
overland with his dog team. The eyes of the world were focused 
upon his heroic rescue. 

Emphasis should be placed on the necessity for quick action to 
save the ‘children of Nome who are dying.” The poem should 
therefore be recited in sharp, staccato tones. Be careful, however, 
to enunciate clearly. The final stanza should be spoken more 
slowly but exultantly, as if giving a toast to the heroes, 


Worn is flashed from the Arctic Sea 
(“Hurry”) 

That a scourge is stalking in fiendish glee 

On snow-clad tundra and frozen lea; 

“O! ride as though you were flying! 

For a healing balm we sorely need; 

Come to our rescue like fiery steed 

As he dashes to battle with lightning speed— 

For the children of Nome are dying.” 


To Nenana dog teams are quickly brought; 
(“Hurry”) 

The dogs are harnessed as quick as thought. 

To be a leader each is taught, 

And to run as though he were flying 


164 School Poetry for Oral Expression 


O’er frozen tundra and trackless snow, 
For countless leagues the cure must go, 
With the temperature sixty degrees below; 
For the children of Nome are dying. 


“Wild Bill” Shannon grasps the rein; 
(“Hurry”) 

Each noble dog in that harnessed train 
‘Tugs at his leash with might and main, 
To speed as though he were flying 
O’er countless miles in storm and sleet, 
With scanty rations of reindeer meat, 
With frozen ears and bleeding feet— 
For the children of Nome are dying. 


At Tolovana Jim Kelland’s team 

Is ready. 
No northern light with its fitful gleam 
Will light the pass or the frozen stream 
For the faithful dogs that are flying 
Through the arctic day and the arctic night, 
Unheeding the frost-king’s stinging bite, 
Unerring as the eagle’s flight, 
‘Toward Nome where the children are dying. 


Bill Green with his team for the third relay 
Will hurry 

To Kallens and Folger who’ll speed away 

Till Nicholas meets them on the way, 

And off through the blizzard flying 


School Poetry for Oral Expression 165 


Will meet Sepalla the musher king, 

Who flies with his famous dogs to bring 
The balm of healing—that priceless thing— 
To the children of Nome who are dying. 


The storm grows fiercer; the wind is wild, 
As they hurry. 

‘As the musher sees the snow-drifts piled, 

He thinks of some suffering, stricken child, 

And urges his dogs into flying. 

His hands are frozen and cracked to the bone, 

His dogs call to him with pitiful moan, 

But God is watching above his own, 

As they speed toward the ones who are dying. 


Olson and Rohn, brave knights of the trail, 
How they hurry! 

Gunnar Kasson must face an arctic gale 

On Norton Sound, he must not fail; 

And Balto, his leader, goes flying. 

In blinding blizzard and arctic night 

He fights his battle, he wins his fight; 

In the first gray dawn of the morning light, 

He’s in Nome, with help for the dying. 


* * * * * 


Bards have sung of the faithful steed 
Which hurries 

To bear his master o’er mountain and mead 

To battle, or some heroic deed, 

And runs as though he were flying; 


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